Midstream: My Later Life

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midstream:
my later life

BOOKS BY

HELEN KELLER

OPTIMISM (AN ESSAY)
OUT OF THE DARK
MIDSTREAM: MY LATER LIFE
MY RELIGION
THE SONG OF THE STONE WALL
THE STORY OF MY LIFE
THE WORLD I LIVE IN

Helen Keller and Sieglinde

MIDSTMEAM

My Later L if e

by

HELEN KELLER

Garden City, New York
DOUBLEDAY, DORAN & COMPANY, INC.
1929

COPYRIGHT, 1939
BY HELEN KELLER
COPYRIGHT, 1929
BY THE CROWELL PUBLISHING COMPANY

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES AT
THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS
GARDEN CITY, N. Y.

FIRST EDITION

TO

ANNE SULLIVAN

WHOSE LOVE
IS

THE STORY OF MY LIFE

"There be many shapes of mystery;
And many things God brings to be,

Past hope or fear.
And the end men looked for cometh not,
And a path is there where no man thought.

So hath it fallen here."

— ^Euripides.

FOREWORD

Somewhere in the course of her book Miss Keller
speaks of the "sacrosanct privacy to which tradition
and the necessities of concentrated thinking entitle
writers and artists." It is something she has never
known. Since she was seven years old, when she was
hailed as "a most extraordinary little individual,"
"a mental prodigy," and "an intellectual phenom-
enon," whose achievements were "little short of a
miracle," whose progress was "a sort of triumphant
march— a series of dazzling conquests," the great
megaphones of publicity have followed her, trumpet-
ing truth and untruth with equal fury, even when the
truth alone was more wonderful than all the embel-
lishments heated imaginations could add to it.

Helen Keller was born, a perfectly healthy and
normal child, in Tuscumbia, Alabama, on June 27,
1880. At the age of eighteen months she was stricken
with a severe illness, the exact nature of which is not
known. It left her deaf and blind; as a result
of the deafness she soon became dumb also.
For five years she remained imprisoned. Then,
through Dr. Alexander Graham Bell, to whom her
father appealed because he knew Dr. Bell's interest

X FOREWORD

in the deaf, a deliverer was sent to her in the person
of a twenty-year-old graduate of the Perkins Institu-
tion for the Blind at Boston, Mass., a girl by the
name of Anne Mansfield Sullivan. From the day of
Miss Sullivan's arrival on March 2, -1887, the story
of Miss Keller's life reads like a fairy tale. Within a
month the teacher had presented the gift of language
to her little pupil, an achievement in itself so
miraculous that fifty years earlier no one had be-
lieved it possible. Until Dr. Samuel Gridley Howe
proved through the education of Laura Bridgman
that their minds could be reached and shown how
to reach out, the totally blind and deaf were classi-
fied with idiots and left alone.

Since Laura's education numbers of those afflicted
a& she was have been placed in communication with
the world. Some of them have shown considerable
natural ability, but Helen Keller is to-day, as she
has always been, incomparably the greatest among
them. She is the only one who has ever been received,
without apology, into the world of the seeing. In a
college for normal girls to which she was admitted
reluctantly and without favour she won a degree cum
laude in the same length of time it took her classmates
to win theirs. She has learned to speak — the only
, deaf-blind person in America of whom this is true.
She has acted in vaudeville and in motion pictures;
she has lectured in every state in the Union except

FOREWORD xi
Florida/ and in many parts of Canada; she has writ-
ten books of literary distinction and permanent
value; she has, since her graduation from college,
taken an active part in every major movement on
behalf of the blind in this country, and she has
managed to carry on a wide correspondence in Eng-
lish, French, and German, and to keep herself in-
formed by means of books and magazines in those
three languages.

Two years ago she laid down— temporarily— her
work for the American Foundation for the Blind,
thinking to go quietly to her home on Long Island,
and there with her teacher, Mrs. Macy,^ her secre-
tary. Miss Thomson, and her Great Dane, Sieglinde,
review the part of her life which had elapsed since
her sophomore year at Radcliffe College when The
Story of My Life, which is the story of her child-
hood and young girlhood, was published.

I think she had not realized how difficult it would
be to isolate herself. She could stop sending letters
out, but she could not stop them coming in, nor could
she head ofif the beggars who swarmed to her door.
Few people realize what is expected— nay, what is
demanded— of her. Not a day passes without urgent
and heartbreaking appeals from all over the world.
They come by letter and in person— from the blind,
thedeaf, the crippled, the sick, the poverty-stricken,

^Since this was written Miss Keller has also lectured in Florida.
^Formerly Miss Anne Mansfield Sullivan.

xii FOREWORD
and the sorrow-laden. In addition to these, there
are, of course, requests for pictures, autographs, testi-
monials, and explanations of what she thinks of re-
incarnation or prohibition. But the majority of Miss
Keller's letters and the majority of her callers come
with distressing pleas for help. "Oh, Miss Keller,
you, with your unparalleled opportunities! You,
with your wealthy friends!"

The letters were turned over to Miss Thomson and
Miss Keller sat down— it must be confessed without
special enthusiasm, for she has never been greatly
interested in herself— to continue the story of her
life. Almost immediately Miss Thomson was im-
peratively called away, and Mrs. Macy, who is
nearly blind, and Miss Keller, who is quite blind,
were left to struggle along as best they could.

They got their own meals, Mrs. Macy doing most
of the cooking while Miss Keller washed the dishes,
made the beds, did the dusting, and on Monday
pricked out the laundry list in braille so she could
check it when the clothes came back on Saturday.
When the morning chores were done and the most
insistent letters answered she turned to Midstream,
Poignant, heartbreaking days out of the past swept
over her; even to think of them was pain.

She had known for many years that she would one
day have to write this book, and had, in prepara-
tion, jotted down in braille many fragmentary im-

FOREWORD xiii

pressions. Going over them was slow work. Never
believe one who tells you that the blind can read as
rapidly as the seeing. The swiftest ^nger cannot keep
up with the eye. [Itjs not only much slower, but in-
finitely more laborious. The arm grows tired, the
ends of the fingers ache, and Miss Keller discovered
that the friction of years had worn down the
treacherous little dots to such an extent that in marly
cases she could not make out what she had written.

Much of her material was not in braille. The let-
ters from Mark Twain, Dr. Bell, William James,
and others were in hand- or typewriting. So was
most of the data on the blind except that which the
American Foundation for the Blind had put into
raised print. Numbers of articles and stray para-
graphs of her own she had typed, thereby, since she
had at the same time destroyed her braille notes,
placing them forever beyond her own reach. All of
this Mrs. Macy, Miss Thomson, and I read to her
by means of the manual alphabet.

Miss Keller had not been long at work before
Mrs. Macy became ill. A temporary servant was
called in. Mrs. Macy became much worse. The doc-
tors were grave. She had been abusing her eyes. They
had told her not to use them. Work on Midstream
stopped abruptly. Nervous and anxious. Miss Keller
paced the house and tramped the garden. She could
not read, she could not write, she could not even

xiv ^ FOREWORD

think. It was not until Mrs. Macy was completely
out of danger that the autobiography was resumed.

Most of the time Miss Keller composed in braille
and revised in braille. Sometimes she composed
directly on the typewriter, pricking notations at the
top of the pages with a hairpin so she could keep
track of them. Parts she was most uncertain about she
kept in braille a long time, going over and over them.
Often, as she mulled over what she had written, she
decided to write it again, and sometimes the second
or the third or the fourth version was better than the
first.

The mass of material grew. Thousands of pages
lay piled on the floor sprinkled through with thou-
sands of directions: "Put this with what I have
already written about the garden." . . . "Please
see if the letter I had from Mr. Carnegie in 1913
will not fit in here." ... "I think this quotation
is right, but perhaps someone should verify it. It is
not in raised print." . . . "These paragraphs may
add a pleasant touch to what I have already written
about Dr. Bell."

Under Miss Keller's direction, oral and written,
the typed manuscript was rewritten with scissors and
paste, Mrs. Macy, Miss Thomson, and I constantly
spelling back to her pages, paragraphs, and chapters.
As Miss Keller says, it was like putting a picture
puzzle together, only it was not a puzzle one could

FOREWORD XV

hold in a tray; sometimes it seemed as big as the
whole city of New York, and sometimes it seemed
bigger than that. When we had finished we gave it to
a typist to copy while Miss Keller set to writing
connecting paragraphs for chapters that did not fit
together and rewriting parts she did not like and try-
ing frantically to catch up with the outside claims
upon her. Once she left Forest Hills at eleven o'clock
in the morning, delivered an address in Washington
at four o'clock in the afternoon, returned immedi-
ately to Forest Hills where she arrived so late that
the taxi drivers had gone to bed, walked home from
the station, snatched a few hours' sleep, and went
back to work the next morning at eight o'clock! They
were heroic days.

Even yet the book was to her a thing of shreds
and patches. Naturally, our work did not begin with
page one and run through to the end the way the
reader has it now. It was done in small units and
with many interruptions. When the typist had fin-
ished, scissors and paste were once more brought
out, and for the second time, under Miss Keller's
direction, the manuscript was put together, after
which it was spelled to her again three times from
beginning to end while she made still further alter-
ations. In galley proofs it was read to her once more
and for the last time. To the end she was revising
and rewriting. She has not yet read the book with

xvi FOREWORD

her own fingers ; she cannot do that until the braille

edition is printed.

Of the content perhaps a word is necessary. The
book is Miss Keller's. Doubts concerning the authen-
ticity of her accomplishment have long since been
laid to rest, even in Europe where for many years
she was regarded as nothing more than a fine ex-
ample of American exaggeration. It is only those
who do not know her who suggest, now and then, that
it is Mrs. Macy who tells her what to say. Miss Keller
has convictions of her own, and a stubborn way of
hanging on to them. In most instances they are not
those of her teacher. Temperamentally she and Mrs.
Macy are utterly dififerent, and the word "utterly" is
not carelessly used. Each has chambers in her mind
that the other does not, cannot, penetrate. No one
can be more surprised at some of the revelations in
this book than the woman who has lived in daily
association with Miss Keller for the last forty years.

There are people who think of Miss Keller as cut
off from all that is unpleasant, living in a happy
realm of ideality where everything is as it should
be. This has never been true. Six months after she
went to Alabama Mrs. Macy wrote, "From the be-
ginning I have made it a practice to answer all
Helen's questions to the best of my ability and at the
same time truthfully."

Much has been made of the fact that in the educa-

FOREWORD

xvii

tion of Helen Keller Mrs. Macy followed the
methods of Dr. Samuel Gridley Howe, who taught
Laura Bridgman. It is true that they both used the
manual alphabet as their means of communication,
but it is also true that neither of them invented it.
Mrs. Macy's method of presenting language to her
pupil was unlike Dr. Howe's, as has been made clear
in The Story of My Life. As for the difference in
method after language was acquired, the statement
of Mrs. Macy's I have just quoted, which was writ-
ten when Miss Keller was seven years old and had
been under instruction four months, may be con-
trasted with this from Dr. Howe in a letter to Laura
when she was fifteen years old and had been under
instruction for seven years: "Your mind is young
and weak and cannot understand hard things, but by
and by it will be stronger and you will be able to
understand hard things." Laura had asked him about
"God and heaven and souls and many questions."

It is annoying to a certain type of mind to have
Miss Keller describe something she obviously can-
not know through direct sensation. The annoyance
is mutual. These sensations, whatever expert opinion
on them may be, are as real to her as any others. Her
idea of colour, to take only one instance, is built up
through association and analogy. Pink is "like a
baby's cheek or a soft Southern breeze." Gray is
"like a soft shawl around the shoulders." Yellow is

xvili FOREWORD

^'like the sun. It means life and is rich in promise."
There are two kinds of brown. One is "warm and
friendly like leaf mould." The other is "like the
trunks of aged trees with worm holes in them, or like
withered hands." Lilac, which is her teacher's
favourite colour, "makes her think of faces she has
loved and kissed." The warm sun brings out odours
that make her think of red. Coolness brings out
odours that make her think of green. A sparkling
colour brings to mind soap bubbles quivering under
her hand.

In her descriptions of San Francisco, to which ob-
jections are sure to be raised, she is not repeating
something she has been told. She is telling what she
has built up for herself out of the descriptions she
has read and those that have been spelled to her.
In what way her picture differs from ours we can-
not say, for she has only our language to use in de-
scribing it. Mark Twain used to think that her im-
ages were more beautiful and gave his own experi-
ence with Niagara Falls and the Taj Mahal to prove
it. In his imagination before he saw them Niagara
Falls were "finer than anything God ever thought
of in the way of scenery," and the Taj Mahal was a
"rat hole" compared with what he thought it would
be. "I thank God," he said one day after Miss Keller
had described the face of a friend, "she can't see." ^

All that Miss Keller claims for her world is

FOREWORD xix

that there is a workable correspondence between it
and ours, since she finds no incongruity in living in
both at the same time. William James was not sur-
prised at this correspondence. I think few phil-
osophers are. They see only too clearly how much of
what we all know and feel has come to us not through
personal knowledge, but through the accumulated
experience of our ancestors and contemporaries as
it is handed down and given over to us in words. She
is, thinks Professor Pierre Villey, himself a blind
man, and a most careful observer, a dupe of words,
and her aesthetic enjoyment of most of the arts is "a
matter of auto-suggestion rather than perception."
He is right, but this is true of all of us.

It has been doubted that Miss Keller can enjoy
sculpture, since it is addressed to the eye, yet the
sculptor's own contact with his work is as much with
the hand as with the eye.

Her enjoyment of music has also been thrown
open to question. She has "listened" with her fingers
to the piano and the violin and various devices
have been contrived to make it possible for her to
''hear" an orchestra. Recently she has been listening
over the radio by placing her fingers lightly on a
sounding board of balsa wood. She can tell when the
announcer is talking and she has learned to recognize
station WEAF by the dogmatic staccato of the an-
nouncer's voice when he repeats the letters. She can

XX FOREWORD

tell whether one or more instruments are playing, and
very frequently can tell what the instruments are.
The singing voice she sometimes confuses with the
violin. The 'cello and the bass viol are likewise con-
fused, but there is never a mistake in the rhythm or
the general mood of the selection, though efforts
have been made to trip her up on these two points.

Miss Keller's impressions of the world have come
much as they do to anyone, only the mechanism is
different. She reads with her fingers instead of her
eyes and listens with her hands instead of her ears.
Those who are familiar with the manual alphabet
generally use it in talking to her. One who is accus-
tomed to talking in this way talks with as little em-
barrassment as in any other. Those who do not know
the manual alphabet talk with their mouths and Miss
Keller listens by placing her fingers lightly on the
lips. She talks with her mouth and is readily under-
stood by anyone who has been with her a short time.
Her voice is not normal, but to those of us who are
used to it, it seems no more abnormal than that of a
person with a marked foreign accent.

So far as tests have been able to determine, her
sensory equipment is in no way, except perhaps in the
sense of smell, superior to that of the normal person.
She seems totally without the sense of direction which
is so pronounced in some of the deaf blind. In her
own home, which is not large, she frequently starts

FOREWORD xxi

toward the opposite wall instead of the door, and
orients herself by contact with the furniture. When
the rugs are taken up she is completely bewildered
and has to learn the whole pattern again. Her sense
of distance is also poor. She does not know when she
has reached the door until she has run into it, and
in winter when the ground is covered with snow and
ice her daily walk becomes a mighty adventure.

Much nonsense has been written about her; no
doubt much more will be. She is perfectly aware of
it, and also of the criticisms that have been levelled
against her. No attack that has ever been made
has been withheld from her. I think she has come
to know that, in judging her, mistakes have been made
on both sides. We have been trying to interpret what
she feels in terms of what we feel, and she, whose
greatest desire has always been, like that of most of
the handicapped, to be like other people, has been
trying to meet us half way. So it is that we find
ourselves in the end where we were in the beginning,
on opposite sides of a wall. Little bits have crumbled
away, but the wall is still there, and there is no
way to break it down.

Many have tried. She has been the subject of much
scientific experimentation and philosophical specu-
lation. This has caused a great deal of disturbance in
learned minds, for she has a disconcerting way of
upsetting nearly all preconceived theories about her-

xxii

FOREWORD

self. Even William James went through this experi-
ence. No one has yet said the final word about her,
except in one particular. William James did that
when at the end of his consideration he said, "The
sum of it is that you are a blessing, and I'll kill any-
one who says you are not."

Nella Braddy.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER PAGE

I. Tuning In i

II. Youth, Oh, Youth 7

III. My First Years in Wrentham 27

IV. Our Mark Twain 47
V. Leading the Blind 70

VI. Per Ardua Proxime Ad Astra - 90

\v^i VII. Wanderings 99

VIII. My Oldest Friend 107

IX. I Capitulate 139

X. On "The Open Road" 149

"^ i . .^e^. XI. In the Whirlpool 169

- "^^ill. I Make Believe I Am an Actress 186

XIII. The Play World 209 -W^^

^^ ^ir^XIV. My Mother 216

^vv^/'^/XV. Lux in Tenebris / 224

XVI. Muted Strings- ^ " 243

XVII. Varied Chords W ^ 262

XVIII. I Go Adventuring 295

XIX. Enchanted Windows 313

XX. Thoughts That Will Not Let Me Sleep 3 29

XXI. My Guardian Angel 342

Index 351

. xxiii

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
Miss Keller and Sieglinde Frontispiece

FACING PAGE

Miss Keller's home at Wrentham 36

Miss Keller, Miss Sullivan, and Dr. Bell 132

Miss Keller, Mrs. Macy, Miss Thomson, and
Hans 164

Miss Keller teaching Charlie Chaplin the
manual alphabet 196

Miss Keller's mother. Miss Sullivan (Mrs.
Macy), Miss Keller 220

Miss Keller ^'listening" to the violin of Edwin
Grasse 284

Miss Keller and her sister, Mildred 308

MIDSTREAM :
MY LATER LIF

MIDSTREAM:
MY LATER LIFE

Chapter I

T U N I N G I N

When people are old enough to write their memoirs,
it is time for them to die, it seems to me. It would
save themselves and others a great deal of trouble
if they did. But since I have the indiscretion to be
still alive, I shall add to their burden by trying to
set down the story of my life since I was a sopho-
more at Radcliffe College.

During many years I have written detached notes
on whatever has interested me, in all kinds of moods,
under all kinds of circumstances. This desultory
manner of writing is temperamental with me. I like
it because it gives me a chance to chat and laugh
a little and be friendly along the way.

I shall not attempt to follow a continuous thread
of thought or give a special message in these pages.
I shall not pursue any one idea up and down the
labyrinths of the mind. It is my wish to jot down
fugitive thoughts and emotions, and let them bear

2 MIDSTREAM

what they will. I have often been told that if I
would put more such fleeting bits of life into words,
I might add somewhat to the fund of sympathy,
thought, and sincerity from which men draw
strength to live. So if what grows out of my notes
should not prove bright or fair, at least the seed
is sweet — the seed of my friends' encouragement.

Since I have been at work upon this auto-
biography, I have frequently thought of the occu-
pation which engaged the attention of my friend
Colonel Roebling the latter years of his life. He was
always a builder. In his young manhood he con-
structed the Brooklyn suspension bridge, and inci-
dentally invalided himself by staying too long under
water in one of the caissons. Years later when I
visited him in Trenton, New Jersey, he showed me
with much enthusiasm a picture which he was build-
ing out of little bits of paper. The picture repre-
sented a great river spanned by a noble bridge, be-
tween green hills; and the fleecy clouds of a sum-
mer day were reflected in the blue waters. Every
tiny bit of paper was tinted and shaped to fit into the
design. Great patience and ingenuity were required
to assemble the thousands of bits that composed the
landscape and the flowing river. From a little tray
he painstakingly selected lights and shadows, leaves
and ripples, and the bridge's flowing spans.

The process of shaping a book is not unlike

TUNING IN 3

Colonel Roebling's picture-building. Into the tray
of one's consciousness are tumbled thousands of
scraps of experience. That tray holds you dismem-
bered, so to speak. Your problem is to synthesize
yourself and the world you live in, with its moun-
tains and streams, its oceans and skies, its volcanoes,
deserts, cities and people, into something like a co-
herent whole. The difficulty multiplies when you
find that the pieces never look the same to you two
minutes in succession. You pick them up, and find
that they are "sicklied o'er" with sentiment, with old
beliefs and relationships. With each new experience
you pass through, they undergo strange transmuta-
tions. I put together my pieces this way and that;
but they will not dovetail properly. When I succeed
in making a fairly complete picture, I discover
countless fragments in the tray, and I do not know
what to do with them. The longer I work, the more
important these fragments seem; so I pull the pic-
ture apart and start it all over again. I trace the
irregular lines of experience through the design, and
wonder at the queer conjunctions of facts and im-
aginings. My sense of the fitness of things demands
that there should be some degree of beauty in the
composition; but alas, I am driven finally to the
realization that the elements which went into the
shaping of my life were not as carefully tinted and
shaped as those in Colonel Roebling's picture. Per-

4 MIDSTREAM

haps, to the eye of the Creator, there may be sym-
metry and purpose and fulfilment; but the
individual perceives only fragments incongruously
mingled together, and blank spaces v^hich one feels
should be filled by something noble, dramatic, or ex-
traordinary.

The first part of The Story of My Life was v^rit-
ten in the form of daily and fortnightly themes in
English 22 at Radcliffe College under Professor
Charles Townsend Copeland. I had no idea of pub-
lishing them and I do not remember how Mr. Bok
became interested in them. I only know that one
morning I was called out of my Latin class to meet
Mr. William Alexander of the Ladies' Home Jour-
nal If I remember rightly, Mr. Alexander said that
Mr. Bok wished to publish The Story of My Life in
monthly installments. I told him that it was out of
the question, as my college work was all I could
manage. His answer surprised me. "You have already
written a considerable part of it in your themes."

"How in the world did you find out I was writ-
ing themes?" I exclaimed. He laughed and said it
was his business to find out such things. He talked
so optimistically about how easily the themes could
be connected to form magazine articles that, with-
out having a very clear idea of what I was doing, I
signed an agreement to furnish the Ladies' Home
Journal with The Story of My Life in monthly in-

TUNING IN 5

stallments for three thousand dollars. At the moment
I thought of nothing but the three thousand dollars.
There was magic in those three words. In my im-
agination the story was already written. Indeed, it
had already found a sure place in "The Golden
Treasury of Literature." My happiness and conceit
knew no bounds. Everything went smoothly at first.
I had already written a number of themes which
Mr. Copeland had read and criticized. He had
also made suggestions which I was able to
use in the first chapter. But the day was not far
distant when I found that I had used all the suitable
themes. I was in deep water, and frightened out of
my wits. I was utterly inexperienced in the prepara-
tion of magazine articles. I did not know how to
cut my material to fit the given space. I had no idea
that the time limit was of such importance until
telegrams began to come, thick and fast, like greedy
birds to a cherry tree. Special delivery letters filled
the chorus of dismay : "We must have the next chap-
ter immediately." "There is no connection between
page six and page seven. Wire the missing part."
Mr. Bok told me years afterwards that the
people in Dante's Inferno had a pleasant time of
it compared with what the staff of the Ladies' Home
Journal endured while my story was on its way. He
said he resolved then never again to start publish-
ing a serial until he had the whole manuscript in his

6 MIDSTREAM

hands; he told me a few years ago that he never had.
When things were at the worst, my friend, Lenore
Kinney, who had just married Philip Sidney Smith,
a classmate of John Macy's, told me about Mr.
Macy. She described him as extremely clever,
and just the sort of knight errant to deliver
me from the jaws of this dilemma. At that time, Mr.
Macy was an English instructor at Harvard Uni-
versity. He had classes in Radclifife also, but I did
not know him. Lenore arranged for us to meet. I
liked him; he was eager, intelligent, gentle. He un-
derstood my difficulties, and promptly set about re-
lieving me of them. We went over the material I had
^accumulated, which was in the state of original
chaos. Quickly and skillfully he brought the re-
calcitrant parts to order; and we constructed a tol-
erably coherent and readable chapter in a few hours.
Mr. Bok hailed him as a deus ex machina, and from
that time on the Journal got its "copy" in fairly good
time.

Mr. Macy was a writer himself, with a keen, well-
stored mind, and his advice was most precious to me.
He was a friend, a brother, and an adviser all in one,
and if this book is not what it should be, it is be-
cause I feel lonely and bewildered without his sup-
porting hand.

Chapter II
YOUTH, OH, YOUTH

In The Story of My Life I went quite fully into
my struggle for admission to Radclifife College. In
these pages, therefore, I shall merely summarize my
experiences and impressions.

I knew that there would be obstacles to conquer ;
but they only whetted my desire to try my strength
by the standards of normal students. I thought that
in college I should touch hands with girls who were
interested in the same subjects that I was, and who
were trying like me to hew out their own paths in
life. I began my studies with enthusiasm. I entered
the lecture halls in the spirit of the young men who
gathered about Socrates and Plato. Here were cup-
bearers "of the wine that's meant for souls" who
would answer all the questions that perplexed me.

But soon I found that my great expectation had
sprung from inexperience. I was reminded of the
upright divisions between the shelves in the library
in a house where I lived while attending the Oilman
School for Girls. When my teacher and I first saw
them she exclaimed, "What beautiful books! Just
feel them." I touched the handsome volumes and

8 MIDSTREAM

read some of the titles, which were so richly embossed
that I could distinguish the letters. But when I tried
to take one of them down I found that they were
imitation books, all bound and lettered in gold to
look like Chaucer, Montaigne, Bacon, Shakespeare,
and Dante. That is the way I felt as the days in college
passed, and my dreams faded into a rather drab
reality.

Two insurmountable obstacles confronted me
throughout my college course — lack of books in
raised letters, and lack of time. Most of the required
books Miss Sullivan read to me, spelling into my
hand. Often when every one else in the house was
asleep, she and I were busy with our books, trying
to catch up with the day's reading. Generous friends
like Mr. H. H. Rogers and Mr. William Wade
would gladly have had the books specially made for
me but often I could not find out from the profes-
sors what books I would need in time to have them
transcribed. No such splendid service as that offered
by the Red Cross was available for blind students
twenty-five years ago. If it had been there would
have been fewer shadows of discontent and more lib-
erty in my work.

Books that were not in braille had to be read to
me by means of the manual alphabet as rapidly as
possible in order that I might keep up with the
classes. I was a slow student and it tried my patience

YOUTH, OH, YOUTH 9

not to be able to read for myself the passages I
especially wanted, as often as I pleased. Miss Sulli-
van was ever at my side, not only reading to me and
spelling the lectures into my hand but looking up
words in Latin, German, and French dictionaries.
She was not familiar with any of these languages,
and to this day I marvel how, with her imperfect
sight, she accomplished such an arduous task.

Each volume in braille — and I remember
especially ''Othello," ''A Winter's Tale," "Henry
IV," ''Henry V," and the Sonnets, parts of Livy and
Tacitus, Plautus's plays, and the poetry of Catullus,
selections from Pope, Dryden, Addison, and Steele,
and the poets to whose divine songs I still withdraw
from the discords of the world : Keats, Wordsworth,
Browning, and Shelley — was a treasure island to me,
and it was an inexpressibly sweet sense of inde-
pendence I had preparing some lessons from pages
over which I could sprawl my fingers and gather the
material for a theme or an examination.

As I look back upon it, it seems to me that, my
own special difficulties aside, we were all in too much
of a hurry. It was like rushing through Europe on a
summer holiday. I caught only fleeting gleams of
the blaze and glory of Elizabethan literature, the
satire and the wit of Swift, Johnson, and Goldsmith,
and the splendour of the Nineteenth Century poets
as they poured out their exuberant messages of

lo MIDSTREAM

spiritual power, cheer, and courage from nature,
from men, and from the Divine Life breathing
through all things. But in the harvest of my later
years it is a delight to remember those v^andlike
touches of fancy, w^isdom, and imagination by which
my soul was set aflame 1

The noble men and women of history and poetry
moved and breathed before me vividly on the pic-
ture screen of time. Generals, kings, and Holy Al-
liances did not concern me much; I could not see
what good could result from the ruthless destruction
wrought by the Alexanders, Caesars, and Napoleons,
but my imagination glowed as I beheld Socrates
fearlessly teaching the youth of Athens the truth and
drinking the fatal cup rather than surrender. Colum-
bus's sublime perseverance as he sailed chartless seas
with an unfriendly crew quickened my sense of ad-
venture in exploring and perhaps mapping a dark,
soundless world. I had always loved Joan of Arc
with a tender reverence, and her beautiful, tragic
figure in Schiller's play, in English and French his-
tory, and in essays by men of widely different tem-
peraments, her simple wisdom that cut through all
entangling arguments, her undaunted faith in the
midst of betrayal and cruelty, revealed to me new
heights and glories of womanhood. She has remained
very close to me — "One of the few whom God
whispers in the ear."

YOUTH, OH, YOUTH ii

With many an amazing scene the vast drama of
the ages unfolded before me— empires rising and
falling, old arts giving way to new ones, races
strangely fused out of the fragments of ancient peo-
ples, heroic doers and thinkers pouring life and en-
ergy into the Dark Ages, scholars defying church
and state, taking the wanderer's staff in hand, suffer-
ing and perishing that paths might be cleared to
higher goals of truth. Fascinated, I watched how
new ideas appeared, waxed great, and waned. I
lost all sense of stability in earthly things, but I
was reassured by the thought that the mind of man
that unmakes what is made can also withdraw into
itself and find peace. This resource was the elixir
vitae I gained from another study that I took up
at Radcliffe College, philosophy.

I was so happily at home in philosophy, it alone
would have rendered those four difficult years worth
while. As a spring rain makes the fields greener, so
my inner world grew fair beneath the shower of new
ideas that fell from the magic words of the sages! I
had faith and imagination; but philosophy taught
me how to keep on guard against the misconceptions
which spring from the limited experience of one
who lives in a world without colour and without
sound. I gained strength for my groping belief from
thinkers who saw with their eyes, heard with their
earSj touched with their hands and perceived the

12 MIDSTREAM

untrustworthiness of the senses even in the best
equipped human being. Socrates's discourses on
knowledge, friendship, and immortality I found in-
tensely absorbing and stimulating, so full were they
of truth and poetry in declaring that the real world
exists only for the mind. Plato made me happily
aware of an inner faculty — an "Absolute" which
gives beauty to the beautiful, music to the musical,
and truth to what we call true, and thus creates
order and light and sound within us, no matter what
calamity may afflict us in the outer world. I was de-
lighted to have my faith confirmed that I could go
beyond the broken arc of my senses and behold the
invisible in the fullness of light, and hear divine
symphonies in silence. I had a joyous certainty that
deafness and blindness were not an essential part of
my existence, since they were not in any way a part
of my immortal mind.

But this idea was faith only until I came to
Descartes's maxim, "I think, therefore I am." I
realized, then, that my "absolute" was not merely a
possession, but an instrument of happiness. I rose up
actively on my little island of limitations and found
other ways to bridge over the dark, silent void
with concepts of a light-flooded, resonant universe.
In other words, I used my inner senses with a
stronger will to dominate the deaf, blind being grop-
ing its way through a welter of objects, sensations,

YOUTH, OH, YOUTH 13

and fragmentary impressions. Before this, through
some obtuseness I had failed to *'take hold" of
the higher consciousness which enlarges life to in-
finity. But those five direct, emphatic words, "I think,
therefore I am," waked something in me that has
never slept since.

Kant and Emerson led me farther on the road to
emancipation. I had often before felt bound by
my lack of hearing and sight to such an extent that I
doubted if I could ever have an adequate concep-
tion of what others saw and heard. My crippled
senses and I seemed at times to be one and insepa-
rable, and I could not see clearly how my ideas or
testimony of things I touched could be taken
seriously. I was told that nine tenths of the human
being's impressions came to him through his eyes and
ears, and I wondered if my friends and I would ever
be able to understand each other. However lovingly
our hearts might meet, there appeared to be an im-
passable gulf between us. The crowded experience of
our so-different lives obstructed many of the natural
channels of understanding. I thought I must seem
almost like a ghost to the strong, confident senses that
ruled the world, but when I penetrated into the im-
material realm which is the world of philosophy, I
gained a cheerful, reconciling view of our situa-
tions. I apprehended the truth of what Kant said,
that sensations without concepts are barren, and

14 MIDSTREAM

concepts without sensations are empty. I put more
thought and feeling into my senses ; I examined as I
had not before my impressions arising from touch
and smell, and was amazed at the ideas with
which they supplied me, and the clues they gave me
to the world of sight and hearing. For example, I
observed the kinds and degrees of fragrance which
gave me pleasure, and that enabled me to imagine
how the seeing eye is charmed by different colours
and their shades. Then I traced the analogies be-
tween the illumination of thought and the light of
day, and perceived more clearly than I ever had the
preciousness of light in the life of the human being.
This way of thinking helped me later when critics
of my writings asked, "But how can she know about
life?" . . . "How can she know what it means
to an adult person to lose his sight, and what kind
of help he especially needs when she has not had his
special experiences?" . . . "What right has she to
write about landscapes she can't see?" and other
questions that showed how little they knew of the
foundations upon which I was building up closer
associations with normal people.

Another shower of thoughts that refreshed my
life-garden fell when I read in Kant that time and
space are not fixed, immutable elements, but change-
able ways of experiencing life. Like most people I
had felt the spell of the senses to such a degree that

YOUTH, OH, YOUTH

the walls of time and space seemed very solid and
inescapable, and that made it harder for me to sit
still and wait when I wanted to be up and getting
somewhere. But when I found that I could over-
leap time and space, crowd years of remembrance
into an hour, or lengthen an hour into eternity, I saw
my true self as a free spirit throwing into the winds
the bonds of body and condition and matter. With
Emerson I read a great poem or listened to a sub-
lime utterance, or held the perfection of a flower in
my hand, and instantly I was over the walls of mortal
life, speeding through the uplands of boundless
beauty. It was in the joy of these new thoughts that
I wrote Optimism and The World I Live In.
For it was Emerson who revealed to me the romance
in Kant's abstract words, and made it easier for me
afterwards to read Swedenborg's discourses on time
and space. I did not then know the importance of
philosophy as a star in lonely hours and dark pas-
sages of my life ; and now it is a delight to recall how
many times it has kept me happy in the face of per-
plexing questions about my little world, and how
often it has made as my own the pleasure of another
in wonders beyond the reach of my two sealed senses!

It was a disappointment to me that I did not have
closer contact with my professors. Most of them
seemed as impersonal as victrolas. I never met Dean

i6 MIDSTREAM

Briggs, although I lived next door to him, nor did
I ever meet Dr. Eliot. He signed my diploma, but
so far as I know, this was the extent of his interest in
me.

Among the four or five members of the faculty
who took a personal interest in me were Professor
Bartlett, who taught German, Dr. William Allan
Neilson, who is now President of Smith College,
Professor Royce, and Professor Charles T. Cope-
land. My teacher and I saw much of Dr. Neilson
outside the college. He and his sweet sister invited
us to tea sometimes, and their friendliness to us both
was delightful. Dr. Neilson is a charming Scot with
an irrepressible sense of humour and a spirited way
of lecturing on the glories of Elizabethan literature.
He was the only professor who learned the manual
alphabet so that he might talk with me. I have not
seen him as much as I would like in recent years,
but his friendship has continued to this day.

Mr. Copeland was not a professor when I was
at Radcliffe, but he was a great force. His power lay,
I think, in an elusive charm difficult to put into
words — the charm of a unique personality. They told
me his voice was capable of conveying poignant emo-
tion. I could follow it in the ebb and flow of my
teacher's fingers. I never knew any one who could
by a mere word or phrase express so much. His way
of talking was often Carlylesque, and his wit was

YOUTH, OH, YOUTH 17

incisive. But even when he read our trivial themes
and unimportant opinions there was a kindly toler-
ance beneath his whimsical mannerisms. He greatly
lightened the dark ways of my understanding of
composition, and his words of praise are among the
most precious encouragements I have ever had in
my work.

Professor Royce was so unfailingly detached that
he seemed more like a statue of Buddha than a
human being, but his serene nature, the kindness of
his greetings, and the nobility of his social ideas,
which he afterwards embodied in his book. The
Philosophy of Loyalty, make me wish I might have
known him better.

I enjoyed the history course under Professor
Archibald Gary Coolidge, but I never talked with
him. He was singularly shy. Once when I wanted
to ask him a question Miss Sullivan stopped him just
as he was leaving his desk. He was so frightened that
she had to repeat the question twice. His answer was
utterly incoherent, and he rushed out of the room
as soon as he had given it. To me he never seemed
a personality. His words came as out of a book read
aloud, but few of my professors were so enlightening.
After my undergraduate days he served on several
missions — the American Peace Delegation, the
American Economic Mission, and the American Re-
lief Administration in Russia in 192 1. It is no exag-

i8 MIDSTREAM

geration to say that he outshone many of his more
talked of compatriots.

The barrier of my physical handicap lay between
me and my classmates. Only one of them learned to
talk with me on her fingers, but they had many
charming ways of showing their friendliness. At
Mrs. Hogan's lunch room, where we ate sandwiches
and chocolate eclairs they gathered around me and
Miss Sullivan spelled their bright chatter into my
hand. The girls made me vice-president of our class.
If my work had not been so strenuous I should prob-
ably not have missed so much of the lighter side of
the college life.

One of my classmates. Bertha Meckstroth, learned
to write braille, and in her free moments copied
Elizabeth Barrett Browning's Sonnets from the Por-
tuguese for me. This was just before I graduated,
and I never saw or heard from her afterwards. But I
treasure the lovely deed as a precious memento of
my college days.

Another episode I like to recall was a surprise
my class planned for me. One day several girls in-
vited me to go with them to see some jolly friends
in Brookline. That was all they would tell me, and
when we reached our destination, they were very
mysterious. I began to sniff, and in a moment I
realized that instead of a human habitation we were

YOUTH, OH, YOUTH 19

entering a kennel, the abode of many Boston terriers.
The dogs gave us a royal welcome, and one ugly
beauty, heir of a noble pedigree, with the title of Sir
Thomas Belvedere, bestowed upon me his special
favour, planting himself resolutely at my feet, pro-
testing with his whole body if I touched any other
dog. The girls asked me if I liked him. I said I
adored him.

*Take him home then," they said. ^'He is our gift
to you."

Sir Thomas seemed to understand; for he began
spinning round and round me like a top. When he
had quieted down a little I told him I did not care
much for titles. He assured me that he had no ob-
jection to changing his name, and when I told him
that I was going to call him Phiz he rolled over
thrice by way of showing his approval. So we car-
ried him happily back with us to Cambridge.

We were living at that time at 14 Coolidge Avenue,
in part of a house which had once been a fine man-
sion. It was picturesquely situated on a knoll, almost
hidden by great trees, facing Mt. Auburn Street,
and so far back that the trolley cars and traffic never
disturbed us. The home of James Russell Lowell was
near by. Dear Bridget kept house for us and was
always there to open the door and bid us welcome.

The land behind was utilized by a florist to raise
several crops of flowers in the season — pansies, mar-

20 MIDSTREAM

guerites, geraniums, and carnations. The fragrance
was heavenly, and when Italian women and chil-
dren in bright-coloured dresses and shawls came
to pick the flowers for the market, and waked
us with their laughter and song it was Uke being in
an Italian village. What an unusual scene it was in
the heart of a busy city — women with their arms full
of carnations — not mere pictures, but live women
with the fresh colour of country life in their cheeks
and large dark eyes and coils of black hair — and
children carrying baskets of bright geraniums and
chattering like birds — their happy voices and expres-
sive gestures, and the whiffs of sweetness from the
many flowers 1

While we were in Cambridge we made the ac-
quaintance of a number of students and young in-
structors at Harvard. Some of them learned the
manual alphabet, which made real companionship
possible, and we had no end of delightful times to-
gether. Among them was Philip Sidney Smith, who
is now Chief Alaskan Geologist of the National
Geological Survey in Washington. His wife, Lenore,
was one of our most staunch friends, and she helped
me in my studies or went with me to the lectures
when Miss Sullivan was ill or tired. Then there
was John Macy, who afterwards married my teacher,

YOUTH, OH, YOUTH 21

and whose name remains forever a part of all that is
most precious in our lives.

What zest v^e had for life in those days! We
thought nothing of a ten mile tramp over country
roads or a forty mile ride on our tandems. Every-
thing interested us — the autumn v^oods bright v^ith
jewelled leaves and sparkling sunlight, the migrat-
ing birds, the squirrels gathering their winter stores,
the wild apple trees raining their fruit upon our
heads, the Medford marshes spangled with sapphire
pools and red cat-tails.

But my memories are not all of summer weather,
with the odours of meadow, field, and orchard float-
ing out to us on balmy breezes. Winter, too, brought
its delights. On clear nights we used to go sleighing
in Shay's express wagon which had been put on run-
ners and filled with sweet-smelling hay. Patrick held
the prancing horses until we climbed in, but no
sooner were we seated than they sprang forward,
and we sped away, to the music of the sleigh bells, to
a universe of snow and stars!

And the homecoming! How inviting was the cosy
warmth that breathed in our faces as dear Bridget
opened the door for us, her sweet, patient face alight
with welcome! How good the smell of coffee and
muffins! How jolly the confusion of rushing about
and putting the supper on the table, everyone getting

22 MIDSTREAM

in Bridget's way. But she only smiled the more,
happy in our youth. I cannot think of Cambridge
without thinking of Bridget's continual bestowal of
herself in loving service to my teacher and me.

Many times during the long winter evenings we
sat around an open fire with a circle of eager, im-
aginative students, drinking cider, popping corn, and
joyously tearing to pieces society, philosophies, re-
ligions, and literatures. We stripped everything to
the naked skeleton. Fortunately, the victims of our
superior criticism were unaware of our scorn and
even of our existence. We did not proclaim our
opinions to the dull world, but enjoyed them the
more keenly within the seclusion of our little circle.
We were passionately independent. All of us were
individualists, yet all of us responded to the altruistic
movements of the time. We believed in the rising
tide of the masses, in peace, and brotherhood, and "a
square deal" for everybody. Each one of us had an
idol around whom our theories revolved like planets
around the sun. These idols had familiar names-
Nietzsche, Schopenhauer, Karl Marx, Bergson,
Lincoln, Tolstoi, and Max Stirner. We read Shelley,
Whitman, and Swinburne. The more we read and
discussed, the more convinced we were that we be-
longed to that choice coterie who rise in each age,
and manage to attain freedom of thought. We felt
that undoubtedly we were a group of modern pio-

YOUTH, OH, YOUTH 23

neers who had risen above our materialistic sur-
roundings. Despite a dismal dearth of inspiration,
we succeeded in living a life rich in thought and
spiritual experience. From our lofty, lonely heights
we looked down upon our fellow students with pity
akin to that which the angels feel for mortals. What
a wealth of wit and wisdom we lavished upon each
other! And the endless discussions that darkened
counsel! For each of us had a panacea to turn this
barren world into a paradise, and each defended his
special kingdom with argument flashed against
argument in true duelling fashion. Nonchalantly we
swept empires into the dust heap, and where they
had flourished we, with astounding ease, established
perfect democracies. In these democracies all the
inhabitants were to display great eagerness to leave
behind commonplace existence. Practical problems
were left to take care of themselves — as they are
in most Utopias.

Oh, young days, young days, what are you saying
to me out of the Long Ago? March winds off Fresh
Pond, a hat gone to the fishes! April showers
on the Concord road, two friends under one mackin-
tosh! May days in the Middlesex Fells, following the
delicate scent of the trailing arbutus! A hatless youth
spelling his gay talk into eager hands, unmindful of
wondering sedate folk taking their carriage exer-
cise! It was a joy to feed the squirrels with nuts and

24 MIDSTREAM

sit by the roadside and count the birds. They do not
seem to be so many now, and they do not sing as
merrily as they did when Carl imitated their liquid
notes for me.

But I must move on. I must not appear to my
reader an old woman living over again the events of
her youth.

There was another side to my experience in Rad-
clifife College which I must present here if I am to
remove some of the errors which have arisen with
regard to my life in Cambridge and the details of my
graduation. It has been said that praises and honours
were showered upon Miss Sullivan and me by all
who saw us grappling with our difficulties. I have
before me a sympathetic article in French, which
contains a description of the ceremony in which I
received the degree of Bachelor of Arts.

Une foule immense emplissait ce jour-la le theatre ou avait lieu
la fete du College. Plusieurs autres etudiantes allaient aussi
recevoir des diplomes, mais toutes les attentions, tous les regards,
tous les coeurs etaient fixes sur la gracieuse jeune fille . . . qui se
tenait au premier rang au milieu de scs compagnes. Miss Sullivan,
assise a cote d'elle, partageait naturellement I'heure de son
triomphe, comme elle avait partage les jours et les annees de son
penible labeur . . . Lorsqu'on appela le nom d'Helen, maitrcssc
et eleve, ou plutot mere et fille spirituelles, la main dans la main,
monterent ensemble les degres de I'estrade. Au milieu de tonnerres
d'applaudissements frenetiques qu'elle ne pouvait entendre, mais

YOUTH, OH, YOUTH

^5

dont elle sentait resonner les echos, la jeune fille regut le precieux
diplome portant cette mention speciale — "Non seulement a subi
avec succes les examens de tous grades universitaires, mais excelle
en litterature anglaise."*

The words about my teacher are true. The best
part of my success was having her by my side who
had kept me steadfast to my purpose. But the rest of
the account is the stuff that myths are made of. There
were no huge crowds filling the hall that June after-
noon. Only a few friends came especially to see me.
My mother was prevented by illness from being with
me on that occasion, and her disappointment was as
bitter as my own. Dean Briggs delivered the usual
commencement address, but he did not mention Miss
Sullivan. In fact, none of the faculty spoke either to
her or to me. When I received my diploma, I felt no
^'thunder of wild applause." It was nothing like the
imposing, brilliant ceremony which has been pictured
in some accounts of my college days. Several of the
students, when they took off their caps and gowns,

*0n that day an immense crowd filled the auditorium where the
commencement exercises were held. Other students were to receive
diplomas but all attention, all looks, all hearts were fixed on the lovely
young girl who held first rank among her companions. Miss Sullivan,
seated beside her, naturally shared the hour of her triumph as she had
shared the days and years of her strenuous labour. When the name
of Helen was called, mistress and pupil, or rather spiritual mother and
daughter, hand in hand, mounted the steps. In the midst of thunders of
frantic applause which she could not hear but of which she felt the
echo, the young girl received the precious diploma carrying this special
mention: "Not only has she passed successfully the university examina-
tions, but she excels in English literature."

26 MIDSTREAM

expressed indignation, and one sweet girl declared
that Miss Sullivan should have received a degree, too.
We had come in to our seats quietly that afternoon,
and we went out as soon as we could, caught a street
car and hastened away to the fragrant peace of the
lovely New England village packed with summer
time, where we were already settling down to live.
That evening I was gliding out on Lake Wollomona-
poag in a canoe with some friends, forgetting my
weariness and the strange ways of the world in
dreams of beauty, the odours which the breezes
carried to me from unseen flowers, and starlit silence,
and little green hills sloping down to the water. May
it ever be thus, may I always return after the clamour
and agitation of eventful days to the great kindliness
of earth and sky and restful twilight!

Chapter III

MY FIRST YEARS IN WRENTHAM

The French article from which I have quoted says
that I was given a home in Wrentham by the public,
who wished to honour me as the ancients did when
they bestowed upon a victorious general an estate
where he could live and enjoy his laurels :

Boston, la ville la plus intellectuelle I'Athenes des Etats
Unis, a, au lendemain de ses examens offert cette maison en
hommage a la jeune fille qui a remporte une victoire sans pareille
de I'esprit sur la matiere, de lame immortelle sur les sens.*

Others who have tried to describe the house with-
out knowing it have added an extensive park and a
wonderful garden. No such pomp and circumstance
marked my triumphal entrance into the village of
Wrentham. Miss Sullivan and I had already bought
a small, old farmhouse, long and narrow, decidedly
Puritanical in appearance, with a neglected field of
seven acres. Miss Sullivan converted a dairy room

*Boston, the most intellectual city, the Athens of the United States,
had on the day after the examinations offered this house in homage to
the young girl who had won a victory without parallel of the spirit over
matter, the immortal soul over the sense.

27

28 MIDSTREAM

and two pantries into a study for me. The French
article describes it as follows :

Helen Keller passe la plupart de ses journees dans son elegant
cabine de travail, orne de bronzes et d'objets d'art offerts pars ses
adorateurs, et dont les murs disparaissent du haut en bas sous des
centaines et des centaines de gros volumes au pages blanches
couvertes de points en relief — ses chers livres in Braille.*

As a matter of fact, the study was very simple.
The only ''works of art" were a plaster Venus di Milo
which my foster-father, Mr. John Hitz, had given me,
a bas-relief medallion of Homer, a gift from Dr.
Jastrow of the University of Wisconsin, and some
curios sent to me by friends from foreign countries.
Only one wall "disappeared" behind large volumes of
braille, and that did not mean hundreds of books. In
most cases there were three, four, or five big volumes
to a book. They were few enough in comparison with
what I wanted, but to any one as hungry for ideas as
I was any bit of honest thinking was a treasure trove.
The chief attractions of the study were sunshine, the
big eastern window full of plants I tended, and a
glass door through which I could step out into a
cluster of pines and sit alone with my thoughts and
my dreams.

*Helen Keller passes the greater part of her days in her elegant
workroom ornamented with bronzes and objets d'art presented by her
admirers, with walls which from top to bottom disappear behind hun-
dreds and hundreds of huge volumes with white pages covered with
points in relief — her dear books in braille.

MY FIRST YEARS IN WRENTHAM 29

Miss Sullivan had a balcony built for me which
opened out of my bedroom so that I could walk
whenever I wanted to. The evergreens came so close
to the railing I could lean over and feel their rustling
music. It was on this balcony that I once "heard" the
love song of a whippoorwill. I had been walking up
and down for an hour or more, pausing every now
and then to breathe the scented air of May. At the
south end I could reach out and touch a wisteria
vine which clung to the rail with long, tenacious
fingers. At the opposite end I faced the garden and
the apple trees, which were in full bloom, and oh,
so heavenly sweet! I was standing under the wisteria
vine with my thoughts far away when suddenly the
rail began to vibrate unfamiliarly under my hands.
The pulsations were rhythmical, and repeated over
and over, exactly as I have felt a note repeated when
I have placed my fingers on a singer's throat. All at
once they ceased, and I felt the wisteria blossom
ticking against my cheek like the pendulum of a
fairy clock. I guessed that a breeze or a bird was
rocking the vine. Then the rail began vibrating again.
A queer beat came always before the rhythmical
beats, like nothing I had ever felt before. I did not
dare move or call, but Miss Sullivan had heard the
sound and put out her hand through the window and
touched me very quietly. I knew I must not speak.

She spelled, "That's a whippoorwill. He is stand-

30 MIDSTREAM

ing on the corner post so close to you I believe you
could touch him; but you must not — he would fly
away and never come back."

Now that I knew he was saying ^'Whip-poor-will!
Whip-poor-will" over and over I could follow the
intonations exactly. The singing seemed joyous to
my touch, and I could feel the notes grow louder and
louder, faster and faster.

Miss Sullivan touched me again and spelled, "His
lady-love is answering him from the apple trees.
Apparently, she has been there all the time, hiding.
Now they are singing a duet."

When the rail stopped vibrating she spelled, "They
are both in the apple tree now singing under billows
of pink and white blossoms."

We paid for this house in Wrentham and the
alterations by selling some shares of sugar stock
which Mr. J. P. Spaulding of Boston had given us
about ten years before. I feel moved to say something
here about one who took the most generous interest
in us both at a time when we needed a strong friend.

I was nine years old, I think, when Elsie Leslie
Lyde, the beautiful child actress who played "Little
Lord Fauntleroy," introduced us to Mr. Spaulding.
He was so tender and understanding, he won me at
once, and from that day he was eager to do anything
for our comfort or pleasure. He liked to come to the
Perkins Institution when we stayed there, and join

MY FIRST YEARS IN WRENTHAM 31

in our midday meal. He always brought a big box
of roses, or fruits or candies. He took us for long
drives, and Elsie accompanied us when she was not
appearing at the theatre. She was a lovely, vivacious
child, and Mr. Spaulding beamed with delight to
see '^his two darlings together." I was just learning
to speak, and it distressed him very much because
he could not understand what I said. I practised
saying ''Elsie Leslie Lyde" one day, and kept on
until I cried; but I wanted Mr. Spaulding to hear
me say it intelligibly, and I shall never forget his
joy when I succeeded. Whenever I failed to articu-
late well, or there was too much noise for him to hear
me, he would hug me and say, "If I can't understand
you, I can always love you," and I know he did with
a deep affection. Indeed, he was beloved by many
people in every walk of life. Elsie called him "King
John," and he was a king in spirit, royal and noble
of heart.

Mr. Spaulding assisted my teacher and me finan-
cially for a number of years. He told us many times
that he would provide for our future. But he died
. without making any provision for us in his will, and /
his heirs refused to continue the help he had given
us. Indeed, one of his nephews said that we had taken
advantage of his uncle when he was not in a condition
to know his own mind !

I see I have again wandered far afield; but I

3^ MIDSTREAM

could not patss over in silence a rare and beautiful
generosity which imposed no obligations upon us,
nor asked anything in return, except the satisfaction
of having us happy.

Somehow Mr. Spaulding seemed very near indeed
when we threw open the doors and windows of our
home — the first home of our own — to the June sun-
shine and started our new life full of bright hopes
for the future.

On May 2, 1905, the year after my graduation, my
teacher married John Macy. She had devoted the
best years of her womanhood to me, and I had often
longed to see her blessed with a good man's love ; I
felt the tenderest joy in their union. Dr. Edward
Everett Hale, one of our oldest and closest friends,
performed the ceremony in the sunny, flower-filled
sitting room of our white farmhouse, and I stood
beside my teacher. Lenore spelled the ceremony
into my hand. My mother and a few close friends
were present. Then Mr. and Mrs. Macy left for
their wedding trip to New Orleans, and I went south
with my mother for a visit. A few days later we were
delightfully surprised to see Mr. and Mrs. Macy
walking into the house! My cup ran over! It seemed
like a dream, having them with me, revelling in the
beauty of early summer in the Southland. The air
was laden with the odour of magnolias, and they

MY FIRST YEARS IN WRENTHAM 33

kept saying how heavenly the song of the mocking
birds was — they called it their wedding music. When
we were all back in Wrentham, I heard that several
people thought I was jealous and unhappy, and one
letter of condolence was actually inflicted upon me!

I wish I could engrave upon these pages the pic-
ture in my fingers that I cherish of those two friends
— my teacher with her queenly mind and heart,
strong and true, going direct to the core of the subject
under discussion, her delight in beauty, her enthu-
siasm for large service and heroic qualities; her
husband with his brotherly tenderness, his fine sensi-
bilities, his keen sense of humour, and his curious
combination of judicial severity and smiling toler-
ance. Since I was out of active life, they both strove
to keep my narrow round pleasant and interesting.
Both had a magical way of breaking up the monotony
for me with bright comments and rapid, frequent
reports of what I could not see or hear. And such a
difference as there was in the way each talked! My
teacher's comments on scenes and news and people
were like nuggets of gold, lavishly spilled into my
hands, while her husband put his words together
carefully, almost as if he were writing a novel. He
often said he wanted to write a novel, and certainly
there was material for one in his brilliant conversa-
tion. His hands were seldom still, and even when he
was not spelling to me I could tell by his gestures

34 MIDSTREAM

whether he was arguing or joking or simply carry-
ing on an ordinary conversation.

I cannot enumerate the helpful kindnesses with
which he smoothed my rugged paths of endeavour.
Once, when my typewriter was out of order, and I
was tired with the manual labour of copying, he sat
up all night, and typed forty pages of my manuscript,
so that they might reach the press in time.

Next to my teacher, he was the friend who dis-
covered most ways to give me pleasure and gratify
my intellectual curiosity. He kept me faithfully in
touch with the chief happenings of the day, the dis-
coveries of science, and the new trends in literature.
If he was particularly pleased with a book, he would
have Mr. John Hitz put it into braille for me, or
he would read it to me himself when he had time.

Not long after we moved to Wrentham Mr. Gilder
asked me to write a series of essays for the Century
about my ideas of the world around me. The essays
appeared in the magazine under the title, "Sense and
Sensibility," but as Jane Austen had used that title
for one of her books, I called them the The World I
Live In when they came out in book form. I do not
remember writing anything in such a happy mood
as The World I Live In, I poured into it everything
that interested me at one of the happiest periods of
life — my newly discovered wealth of philosophy

MY FIRST YEARS IN WRENTHAM 35

and the feeling of the New England beauty which
surrounded me. I had always revelled in the won-
ders of nature; but I had not dreamed what abun-
dance of physical enjoyment I possessed until I sat
down and tried to express in words the lacy shadows
of little leaves, the filmy wings of insects, the murmur
of breezes, the tremulous flutter of flowers, the soft-
breathing breast of a dove, filaments of sound in the
waving grass, and gossamer threads intertwining and
unreeling themselves endlessly.

The next book I wrote was The Song of the Stone
Wall, The idea of writing it came to me with the joy
of spring while we were building up the old walls in
our green field. In it I tried to image the men who
had built the walls long ago. I dedicated the book to
Dr. Edward Everett Hale because he, too, loved the
old walls and the traditions that cling about them.
Moreover, the zeal of the men who built them was
upon his lips and their courage in his heart.

While I was writing these books Mr. Macy was
always near by to help me. He criticized me severely
when my work did not please him, and his praise
was sweet when I wrote something he liked. We read
the pages over and over, weeding out the chaff, until
he thought I had done my best. 'When one's best
is not satisfactory," he would say, "there is nothing
to do about it."

He had the art of pulling me out of a solemn or

36 MIDSTREAM

discouraged mood with laughter that leaves the
heart light and soothes the ruffled mind. I used to
love to ramble or drive with him along the winding
roads of Wrentham. With a gesture of delight he
would point out a pond smiling like a babe on earth's
breast, or a gorgeous bird on the wing, or a field full
of sunshine and ripening corn, or we would sit to-
gether under the Great Oak on the edge of Lake
Wollomonapoag while he read to me from one of
Thoreau's bopks. There are no words to tell how
dear he was to me or how much I loved him. Little
incidents hardly noticed at the time but poignantly
remembered afterwards crowd upon me as I write.
On a still summer evening or by a winter fire, my
thoughts still wander back to those days and dwell
with sweet longing on the affection of those two
friends sitting beside me in the library, their hands in
mine, dreaming of a bright future of mutual helpful-
ness. I can never quite accustom myself to the be-
wildering vicissitudes of life, but, despite the shadows
upon it, both my teacher and I feel that all that was
loveliest in the Wrentham days is ours forever.

When we went to Wrentham to live I had in my
mind a vision of a real farm, like my father's in
Tuscumbia, Alabama, where I could live in the
midst of the strong, abiding simplicity of homely
things among trees and crops and animals.

Miss Keller s home at Wrentham. Ahovey the entrance,
showing the stone wall which Miss Keller helped build.

MY FIRST YEARS IN WRENTHAM 37

The only animal we owned was Phiz, whom wc
carried with us from Cambridge. He died a year
after we moved to Wrentham. We buried him at
the end of the field under a beautiful white pine
tree. I grieved for him a long time, and resolved
never to have another dog. But everybody knows
how, in the course of time, the proverbial other
dog arrives. Kaiser was his name. He was a sturdy
French bull terrier. A friend of Mr. Macy's
presented him to the family. Having lived all
the days of his three years with a man. Kaiser was at
first inclined to assume a supercilious attitude to-
wards women folk. He pondered over what we said
to him, and usually decided that it might be ignored.
We undertook to teach him he must obey in order
to eat. But he found out quickly that apples could
be used as a substitute for meat and bread. He learned
to hold an apple between his paws and eat it with a
good deal of gusto. But when he fully made up his
mind that he could not maintain the fallacy of mascu-
line superiority in an establishment where the femi-
nine forces outnumbered the males three to one, he
surrendered all the major points, also his pretence
that he had a special fondness for apples, though to
the end he retained a certain masculine swagger
which was not unbecoming.

There is not much to tell about Kaiser. His
fate confirms the story of modern civilization. He

38 MIDSTREAM

found food abundant and obtainable without
exertion; therefore he took advantage of every op-
portunity to gourmandize. Both dogs and human
beings find this a pleasant pastime, but they must
make up their minds that sooner or later they will
die of it.

A similar fate overtook some Rhode Island Reds,
which we bought from Mr. Dilley, our next door
neighbour, who was a bird fancier. I fed them my-
self, and they soon became very tame. It was fun to
watch them, but after a while I noticed that they sat
down to their meals, and it was very hard to get
them to move about. Our neighbour was called to
give advice. He declared that I had overfed them to
such an extent that he doubted if Mr. Pierce, our
marketman, would take them. I was so disappointed
with the little gourmands I gave up the idea of ever
trying to raise chickens again.

But it seemed a shame to waste the enclosure we
had put up with so much trouble and expense. So
we bought Thora, a beautiful brindle Dane. I knew
it would be easier to raise puppies; and anyway I
loved dogs better than chickens. In due time Thora's
eleven puppies arrived. Of course I had not dreamed
that there would be so many, or that they would be
so mischievous.

I have not space to give a detailed account of the

MY FIRST YEARS IN WRENTHAM 39

upbringing of that family of Dane puppies. They
were as temperamental as poets and musicians are
supposed to be. There was one everybody singled out
as the gem of the clan. We called her Sieglinde and
lavished special care and affection upon her. Her
colour was red gold, and her head was moulded on
noble lines. Of all the dogs we have ever owned she
was the most beautiful and intelligent, and I am not
belittling my splendid Danish baron, Hans, nor my
fascinating, perverse Scotch lassie. Darky, who are
clamouring at the door of my study as I write.

In the meantime there was the barn — a fine, large
barn with no living creature in it. It did not seem
right that there should be no livestock to enjoy it.
We began to read the advertisements in the Boston
Transcript, We were surprised to find how many
fine animals were without a comfortable home. The
tears actually came to my eyes when I heard of a
lady who was going abroad, and must leave her noble
Great Dane to the mercy of strangers. She said that
if some one who loved animals would only give
Nimrod a home, she would part with him for seventy-
five dollars, which was like giving him away. We
wrote the lady that we should be glad to take Nim-
rod. It was arranged that Mr. Macy should meet her
and Nimrod at the North Station in Boston. Mrs.
Macy and I waited at home.

40 MIDSTREAM

I have never seen such a huge dog. He was more
like a young elephant than a dog. Mr. Macy insisted
that he should be left out on the porch until we found
out what his upbringing had been, but we could not
think of such inhospitality to a stranger within our
gates. The door was flung open, and Nimrod was
invited to enter. There was a small table with a lamp
on it near the door. In passing it, he knocked it over.
Fortunately the lamp was not lighted — in those days
we used kerosene — or I suppose the house would
have been burned. As it was, the crash frightened the
poor dog, so that he charged into the dining room,
knocking Mr. Macy's supper off and the dishes all
over the room. With great difficulty Mr. Macy suc-
ceeded in getting the terrified creature out to the barn.
Family relations were somewhat strained that eve-
ning, and I did not learn much of what happened,
except that the conductor on two trains had refused
to let Nimrod on, and that he had caused a stam-
pede in the waiting room of the station.

Thora would have nothing to do with him. She
even growled at him when he tried to make friends
with the puppies. Out in the field Nimrod seemed
contented to be by himself; but somebody noticed
that he was eating stones. There were too many
stones in the field. Our distress was not caused by
any regret over their disappearance, but we were
concerned about Nimrod's digestion. We sent for

MY FIRST YEARS IN WRENTHAM 41

our neighbour, Dr. Brastow, the state veterinarian.
He controlled his feelings wonderfully when he gave
us the report of his diagnosis.

"The dog," he said, "is about fourteen years old.
He has no teeth, and very little sight. Probably he
thinks the stones are bones. His former owner was,
no doubt, too tender-hearted to have him put to
sleep." However, we thought our friend rather heart-
less when he proposed to do forthwith that which
had been left undone. Still it seemed best.

It was some time before we began to read the ad-
vertisements in the Transcript again. But inevitably
history repeats itself. We had a marvellous, versatile
gift of forgetting previous unfortunate ventures and
joyously entering upon new ones. There is nothing
to be said in favour of this gift, except that it lends
spice to life. The day came when we felt that we
must have a horse, and that very day we read a
column of advertisements of wonderful horses which
could be purchased for half or a third of what they
would naturally sell for; but their owners were in
various difficulties, and wanted to part with them for
stated amounts. The horse we decided to buy was
described as a spirited dark bay; weight, 11 50
pounds; age, six years; gentle, fearless, broken to
saddle, suitable for a lady to drive or ride.

We three innocents went to Boston to see the
horse. The stable man said the owner was out of

42 MIDSTREAM

town, but he showed us the horse, and certainly the
animal was a beauty. His coat was as smooth as satin
and he held his head so high I could scarcely reach
his ears. One of his feet was white, and there and
then, with several endearing pats and caresses, I
christened him Whitefoot. We paid for him on the
spot, and it was arranged that a boy should ride him
out to Wrentham. We learned afterwards that
Whitefoot had thrown the boy three times on the
way ; but he never said a word to us. The next morn-
ing Mr. Macy hitched the horse to a light Democrat
wagon we had, and started for the village. He had
not got out of the driveway when Whitefoot began
to give trouble. Mr. Macy jumped out to see if
there was anything wrong with the harness. At that
moment the Foxboro car passed the gate. The
horse reared, and dashed across the lawn and out
through the neighbour's gate. The wagon caught on
a stone post and was smashed to kindling. Two days
later a country man brought the horse home. He had
found him in a wood road with scraps of harness
still hanging to him.

We finally sold Whitefoot to a man in Attleboro
who claimed to be a horse tamer. We learned a year
or so later that Whitefoot had been the cause of the
death of a cabman, and was pronounced crazy by the
state veterinarian and shot.

It was a long time before we summoned up cour-

MY FIRST YEARS IN WRENTHAM 43

age to try our luck with horses again. But we finally
succeeded in getting what we wanted. King was an
English-bred cob, a rich bay in colour. We used
to say that he stepped as Queen Elizabeth danced,
''high and disposedly." He was a horse tempered
Uke finest steel — strong, patient, good-natured with
common sense — the kind of horse erratic drivers
should prize above pearls and rubies.

Our various enterprises with livestock having not
only failed, but plunged us into deeper financial
tribulations, we were advised to plant an apple
orchard. This seemed just the thing. We bought a
hundred choice three year nurslings and planted
them according to the rules sent out by the United
States Department of Agriculture. They prospered.
The fifth year we were delighted to find a few apples
on them. I knew how many apples each tree had,
and almost daily I made a note of their size. The
apple orchard was such a comfort to us that we
were annoyed with ourselves for not having thought
of it in the beginning.

All went well until one fateful summer afternoon
when Ian Bittman, our Russian man of all work,
came rushing up to my study where Mrs. Macy and
I were reading. "Look! look! look, Madam! See, the
wild cow have come," he cried.

We ran to the window, and in great excitement
Ian pointed out five wonderful creatures disporting

44 MIDSTREAM

themselves through the orchard. Mrs. Macy could
scarcely believe her eyes — they were v^ild deer — a
great antlered buck, a doe, and three half-grown
fawns ! They were beautiful in the afternoon sunlight,
skipping from tree to tree and stripping the bark with
their teeth. Indeed, they were so graceful and lovely,
it did not occur to one of us to chase them out of
the orchard. We stood there fascinated until they
had destroyed nearly every tree before we realized
what had happened. That year Massachusetts paid
thousands of dollars to farmers for the losses they
had sustained from marauding deer. It never oc-
curred to us to send the state a bill for our apple trees.
The last time I visited the old place, I saw perhaps
half a dozen of the trees we had planted, and which
had escaped the sharp teeth of the invaders, grown
to a goodly size, and bearing fruit each year.

I used to stay out of doors as much as possible and
watch that most delightful form of progress — the
preparation of the old garden for young plants, and
the new vegetation which spread over it more and
more. I found paths I could follow in my daily walk
through the field, and explored the wood at the end
of it which was to be the retreat of my happiest hours.
All this was most pleasant to live through, but not
much to write about. However, it indicates the sort of
material I have for an autobiography. I have no
great adventures to record, no thrilling romances, no

MY FIRST YEARS IN WRENTHAM 45

extraordinary successes. This book contains simply
the impressions and feelings which have passed
through my mind. But perhaps, after all, our emo-
tions and sensations are what are most worth relating,
since they are our real selves.

As the seasons came round, I would run out to
gather armfuls of flowers, or watch trees being
pruned, or help bring in wood. There were some
big elms and apple trees which Mr. Macy used to
look after with pride, and they responded beauti-
fully to his care. Every autumn I would put up a
ladder against one of the ancient apple trees, climb
as high as I could, hold to a branch, and shake down
the rosy, fragrant fruit. Then I would descend, pick
up the apples, and fill barrels with them for the
winter. Those were delicious hours when my soul
seemed to cast aside its earthly vesture, glide into the
boughs and sing like the birds about me. I also
walked a great deal. By following the wire which
Mr. Macy had stretched along the field, I easily
found my way to a pine wood, where I could sit and
dream, or wander from tree to tree. In summer there
were tall, bright grasses, timothy, and wonderful
goldenrod and Queen Anne's lace. Altogether, it was
the longest and most free walk — about a quarter of
a mile — that I ever had by myself. These details may
seem trivial, but without this bit of freedom and
sunny solitude I could not have endured the exact-

46 MIDSTREAM

ing nature of my daily work. Occasionally some one
took me for a "spin" on my tandem bicycle. There
were long, delightful rides on the trolley cars
through the New England woods. I remember with
pleasure that no odour of gasoline marred the purity
of the air.

As I look back, everything seems to have moved
with the slowness of a woodland stream — no auto-
mobiles or aeroplanes or radios, no revolutions, no
world wars. Such was our life in Wrentham, or
something like it, between 1905 and 191 1. For it
seems so far away, I sometimes feel as if it were a
sort of preexistence — a dream of days when I wore
another body and had a different consciousness. Yet
I see it clear enough, all the more vivid because it
was free from the external distractions which keep
one's thoughts occupied with trivial things and leave
no leisure for the soul to develop. Where gayety was
infrequent, the simplest amusements had the perfume
of heavenly joy. Where the surroundings were rural,
and life monotonous, any beam that shone upon them
was precious. Any flower discovered among the rocks
and crannies or beside the brook had the rareness of
a star. Small events were full of poetry, and the glory
of the spirit lay over all.

Chapter IV

OUR MARK TWAIN

One of the most memorable events of our Wrent-
ham years was our visit to Mark Twain.

My memory of Mr. Clemens runs back to 1894,
when he was vigorous, before the shadows began to
gather. Such was the affection he inspired in my
young heart that my love for him has deepened with
the years. More than anyone else I have ever known
except Dr. Alexander Graham Bell and my teacher,
he aroused in me the feeling of mingled tenderness
and awe. I saw him many times at my friend Mr.
Lawrence Hutton's in New York, and later in
Princeton, also at Mr. H. H. Rogers's and at his own
home at 21 Fifth Avenue, and last of all at Storm-
field, Connecticut. Now and then I received letters
from him. We were both too busy to write often, but
whenever events of importance in our lives occurred
we wrote to each other about them.

I was fourteen years old when I first met Mr.
Clemens — one Sunday afternoon when Miss Sullivan
and I were the guests of Mr. and Mrs. Lawrence
Hutton in New York. t)uring the afternoon several
celebrities dropped in, and among them Mr.

47

48 MIDSTREAM

Clemens. The instant I clasped his hand in mine, I
knew that he was my friend. He made me laugh and
feel thoroughly happy by telling some good stories,
which I read from his lips. I have forgotten a great
deal more than I remember, but I shall never for-
get how tender he was.

He knew with keen and sure intuition many things
about me and how it felt to be blind and not to keep
up with the swift ones — things that others learned
slowly or not at all. He never embarrassed me by
saying how terrible it is not to see, or how dull life
must be, lived always in the dark. He wove about
my dark walls romance and adventure, which made
me feel happy and important. Once when Peter
Dunne, the irrepressible Mr. Dooley, exclaimed:
"God, how dull it must be for her, every day the
same and every night the same as the day," he said,
"You're damned wrong there; blindness is an ex-
citing business, I tell you ; if you don't believe it, get
up some dark, night on the wrong side of your bed
when the house is on fire and try to find the door."

The next time I saw Mr. Clemens was in Prince-
ton during a spring vacation when we were visiting
the Huttons in their new home. We had many happy
hours together at that time.

One evening in the library he lectured to a dis-
tinguished company — Woodrow Wilson was pres-

OUR MARK TWAIN 49

ent — on the situation in the Philippines. We lis-
tened breathlessly. He described how six hundred
Moros — men, women, and children — had taken
refuge in an extinct crater bowl near Jolo, where
they were caught in a trap and murdered, by order
of General Leonard Wood. A few days afterwards,
Col. Funston captured the patriot Aguinaldo by dis-
guising his military marauders in the uniform of the
enemy and pretending to be friends of Aguinaldo's
officers. Upon these military exploits, Mr. Clemens
poured out a volcano of invective and ridicule. Only
those who heard him can know his deep fervour and
the potency of his flaming words. All his life he
fought injustice wherever he saw it in the relations
between man and man — in politics, in wars, in out-
rages against the natives of the Philippines, the
Congo, and Panama. I loved his views on public
affairs, they were so often the same as my own.

He thought he was a cynic, but his cynicism did
not make him indifferent to the sight of cruelty, un-
kindness, meanness, or pretentiousness. He would
often say, "Helen, the world is full of unseeing eyes^
vacant, staring, soulless eyes." He would work him-
self into a frenzy over dull acquiescence in any evil
that could be remedied. True, sometimes it seemed
as if he let loose all the artillery of Heaven against
an intruding mouse but even then his "resplendent

50 MIDSTREAM

vocabulary" was a delight. Even when his ideas were
quite wrong, they were expressed with such lucidity,
conviction, and aggressiveness that one felt impelled
to accept them — for the moment at least. I One is al-
most persuaded to accept any idea which is well ex-
pressed.

He was interested in everything about me — my
friends and little adventures and what I was writing.
I loved him for his beautiful appreciation of my
teacher's work. Of all the people who have written
about me he is almost the only one who has realized
the importance of Miss Sullivan in my life, who has
appreciated her "brilliancy, penetration, wisdom,
character, and the fine literary competences of her
pen."

He often spoke tenderly of Mrs. Clemens and
regretted that I had not known her.

"I am very lonely, sometimes, when I sit by the
fire after my guests have departed," he used to say.
"My thoughts trail away into the past. I think of
Livy and Susie and I seem to be fumbling in the
dark folds of confused dreams. I come upon memo-
ries of little intimate happenings of long ago that
drop like stars into the silence. One day every-
thing breaks and crumbles. It did the day Livy
died." Mr. Clemens repeated with emotion and in-
expressible tenderness the lines which he had carved
on her tombstone :

OUR MARK TWAIN 51

Warm summer sun,
Shine kindly here ;
Warm Southern wind,
Blow softly here ;
Green sod above.
Lie light, lie light ;
Good night, dear heart,
Good night, good night.

The year after her death he said to me, ^'This has
been the saddest year I have ever known. If it were
not that work brings forgetfulness, life would be in-
tolerable." He expressed regret that he had not ac-
complished more. I exclaimed, ^'Why, Mr. Clemens,
the whole world has crowned you. Already your
name is linked with the greatest names in our his-
tory. Bernard Shaw compares your work with that
of Voltaire, and Kipling has called you the Ameri-
can Cervantes."

"Ah, Helen, you have a honeyed tongue; but you
don't understand. I have only amused people. Their
laughter has submerged me."

There are writers who belong to the history of
their nation's literature. Mark Twain is one of them.
When we think of great Americans we think of him.
He incorporated the age he lived in. To me he sym-
bolizes the pioneer qualities — the large, free, un-
conventional, humorous point of view of men who
sail new seas and blaze new trails through the wil-

52 MIDSTREAM

derness. Mark Twain and the Mississippi River
are inseparable in my mind. When I told him that
Life on the Mississippi was my favourite story of ad-
venture, he said, "That amazes me. It wouldn't have
occurred to me that a woman would find such rough
reading interesting. But I don't know much about
women. It would be impossible for a person to know
less about women than I do."

After some badinage back and forth about women,
Mr. Clemens's manner changed. A sadness came
into his voice. "Those were glorious days, the days
on the Mississippi. They will come back no more,
life has swallowed them up, and youth will come no
more. They were days when the tide of life was high,
when the heart was full of the sparkling wine of
romance. There have been no other days like them."

It was just after he had read my book The World
I Live In, that he sent a note to Wrentham saying, "I
command you all three to come and spend a few
days with me in Stormfield."

It was indeed the summons of a beloved king. His
carriage met us at Redding station. If my memory
serves me, it was in February; there was a light snow
upon the Connecticut hills. It was a glorious five
mile drive to Stormfield ; little icicles hung from the
edges of the leaves and there was a tang in the air
of cedar and pine. We drove rapidly along the wind-
ing country roads, the horses were in high spirits.

OUR MARK TWAIN 53

Mr. Macy kept reading signboards bearing the in-
itials ''M. T." As we approached the Italian villa
on the very top of the hill, they told me he was stand-
ing on the verandah waiting. As the carriage rolled
between the huge granite pillars, he waved his hand ;
they told me he was all in white and that his beauti-
ful white hair glistened in the afternoon sunshine
like the snow spray on the gray stones.

There was a bright fire on the hearth, and we
breathed in the fragrance of pine and the orange
pekoe tea. I scolded Mr. Clemens a little for coming
out on the verandah without his hat; there was still
a winter chill in the air. He seemed pleased that I
thought about him in that way, and said rather wist-
fully, "It is not often these days that anyone notices
when I am imprudent."

We were in the land of enchantment. We sat by
the fire and had our tea and buttered toast and he
insisted that I must have strawberry jam on my toast.
We were the only guests. Miss Lyon, Mr. Clemens's
secretary, presided over the tea table.

Mr. Clemens asked me if I would like to see the
house, remarking that people found it more inter-
esting than himself.

Out of the living room there was a large sunny,
beautiful loggia, full of living plants and great jar-
dinieres filled with wild grasses, cat-tails, goldenrod,
and thistles which had been gathered on the hills in

54 MIDSTREAM

the late fall. We returned through the living room
to the dining room and out on to the pergola and
back again to the house and into the billiard room,
where Mr. Clemens said he spent his happiest hours.
,He was passionately fond of billiards, and very proud
of the billiard table with which Mrs. H. H. Rogers
had presented him. He said he would teach me to
play.

I answered, "Oh, Mr. Clemens, it takes sight to
play billiards."

"Yes," he teased, "but not the variety of billiards
that Paine and Dunne and Rogers play. The blind
couldn't play worse." Then upstairs to see Mr.
Clemens's bedroom and examine the carved bed-
posts and catch a glimpse of the view out of the
great windows before darkness closed in upon us.

"Try to picture, Helen, what we are seeing out of
these windows. We are high up on a snow-covered
hill. Beyond, are dense spruce and firwoods, other
snow-clad hills and stone walls intersecting the land-
scape everywhere, and over all, the white wizardry
of winter. It is a delight, this wild, free, fir-scented
place."

Our suite of rooms was next to his. On the mantel-
piece, suspended from a candlestick, was a card ex-
plaining to burglars where articles of value were in
the room. There had recently been a burglary in the

OUR MARK TWAIN 55

house, and Mr. Clemens explained that this was a
precaution against being disturbed by intruders.

"Before I leave you," he said, "I want to show you
Clara's room; it is the most beautiful apartment in
the house."

He was not content until he had shown us the
servants' quarters, and he would have taken us to
the attic if Miss Lyon had not suggested that we leave
it for another day. It was obvious that Mr. Clemens
took great satisfaction in his unusual house. He told
us that it had been designed by the son of my life-
long friend, William Dean Howells. Delightfully he
pointed out that the architecture was exactly suited
to the natural surroundings, that the dark cedars and
pines, which were always green, made a singularly
beautiful setting for the white villa. Mr. Clemens
particularly enjoyed the sunlight that came through
the great windows and the glimpse of field and sky
that could be seen through them.

"You observe," he said to us, "there are no pic-
tures on the walls. Pictures in this house would be
an impertinence. No artist, going to this window and
looking out, has ever equalled that landscape."

We stayed in our room till dinner was announced.
Dinner in Mr. Clemens's house was always a func-
tion where conversation was important; yes, more im-
portant than the food. It was a rule in that house
that guests were relieved of the responsibility of con-

56 MIDSTREAM

versation. Mr. Clemens said that his personal experi-
ence had taught him that you could not enjoy your
dinner if the burden of finding something to say was
weighing heavily upon you. He made it a rule, he
said, to do all the talking in his own house, and ex-
pected when he was invited out that his hosts would
do the same. He talked delightfully, audaciously,
brilliantly. His talk was fragrant with tobacco and
flamboyant with profanity. I adored him because he
did not temper his conversation to any femininity.
He was a playboy sometimes and on occasions liked to
show off. He had a natural sense of the dramatic, and
enjoyed posing as he talked. But in the core of him
there was no make-believe. He never attempted to
hide his light under a bushel. I think it was Goethe
who said, ^'Only clods are modest." If that is true,
then in the world there was not less of a clod than
Mr. Clemens.

He ate very little himself, and invariably grew
restless before the dinner was finished. He would get
up in the midst of a sentence, walk round the table
or up and down the long dining room, talking all
the while. He would stop behind my chair, and ask
me if there was anything I wanted ; he would some-
times take a flower from a vase and if I happened to
be able to identify it he showed his pleasure by
describing in an exaggerated manner the powers that
lie latent in our faculties, declaring that the ordinary

OUR MARK TWAIN 57

human being had not scratched the surface of his
brain. This line of observation usually led to a tirade
upon the appalling stupidity of all normal human
beings. Watching my teacher spelling to me, he
drawled, "Can you spell into Helen's left hand and
tell her the truth?" Sometimes the butler called his
attention to a tempting dish, and he would sit down
and eat.

To test my powers of observation, he would leave
the room quietly and start the self-playing organ in
the living room. My teacher told me how amusing
it was to see him steal back to the dining room and
watch stealthily for any manifestations on my part
that the vibrations had reached my feet. I did not
often feel the musical vibrations, as I believe the
floor was tiled, which prevented the sound waves
from reaching me, but I did sometimes feel the chord
vibrations through the table. I was always glad when
I did, because it made Mr. Clemens so happy.

We gathered about the warm hearth after dinner,
and Mr. Clemens stood with his back to the fire
talking to us. There he stood — our Mark Twain, our
American, our humorist, the embodiment of our
country. He seemed to have absorbed all America
into himself. The great Mississippi River seemed
forever flowing, flowing through his speech, through
the shadowless white sands of thought. His voice
seemed to say like the river, "Why hurry? Eternity

58 MIDSTREAM

is long; the ocean can wait." In reply to some ex-
pression of our admiration for the spaciousness and
the beauty of the room, which was a combination of
living room and library, he said with more enthu-
siasm than was his wont, "It suits me perfectly. I
shall never live anywhere else in this world."

He was greatly interested when we told him that
a friend of ours, Mr. W. S. Booth, had discovered
an acrostic in the plays, sonnets, and poems usually
attributed to Shakespeare, which revealed the author
to be Francis Bacon. He was at first sceptical and in-
clined to be facetious at our expense. He attacked
the subject vigorously, yet less than a month elapsed
before he brought out a new book, Is Shakespeare
Dead? in which he set out, with all his fire, to de-
stroy the Shakespeare legend, but not, he said in a
letter to me, with any hope of actually doing it.

"I wrote the booklet for pleasure — not in the ex-
pectation of convincing anybody that Shakespeare
did not write Shakespeare. And don't you," he
warned me, "write in any such expectation. Shake-
speare, the Stratford tradesman, will still be the
divine Shakespeare to our posterity a thousand years
hence."

When the time came to say good night, Mr.
Clemens led me to my room himself and told me
that I would find cigars and a thermos bottle with
Scotch whiskey, or Bourbon if I preferred it, in the

OUR MARK TWAIN 59

bathroom. He told me that he spent the morning in
bed writing, that his guests seldom saw him before
lunch time, but if I felt like coming in to see him
about ten-thirty, he would be delighted, for there
were some things he would like to say to me when
my Guardian Angel was not present.

About ten o'clock the next morning, he sent for
me. He liked to do his literary work in bed, propped
up among his snowy pillows looking very handsome
in his dressing gown of rich silk, dictating his notes
to a stenographer. He said if doing my work that
way appealed to me, I might have half the bed,
provided I maintained strict neutrality and did not
talk. I told him the price was prohibitive, I could
never yield woman's only prerogative, great as the
temptation was.

It was a glorious bright day, and the sun streamed
through the great windows. Mr. Clemens said if I
did not feel inclined to work after lunch (which was
by way of sarcasm, as he had previously remarked
that I did not look industrious, and he believed that
I had somebody to write my books for me), he
would take a little walk with us and show us the
"farm." He said he would not join us at lunch, as
his doctor had put him on a strict diet. He appeared,
however, just as dessert was being served. He said
he had smelt the apple pie and could not resist.
Miss Lyon protested timidly.

6o MIDSTREAM
''Oh, Mr. Clemens "

"Yes, I know; but fresh apple pie never killed
anybody. But if Helen says I can't, I won't." I did
not have the heart to say he couldn't, so we com-
promised on a very small piece, which was later aug-
mented by a larger piece, after a pantomimic warn-
ing to the others not to betray him.

I suspected what was going on, and said, ''Come,
let us go before Mr. Clemens sends to the kitchen
for another pie."

He said, "Tell her I suspected she was a psychic.
That proves she is."

He put on a fur-lined greatcoat and fur cap, filled
his pockets with cigars, and declared himself ready
to start on the walk. He led me through the pergola,
stopping to let me feel the cedars which stood guard
at every step.

"The arches were intended for ramblers," he said,
"but unfortunately they haven't bloomed this winter.
I have spoken to the gardener about it, and I hope
the next time you come we shall have roses bloom-
ing for you." He picked out a winding path which
he thought I could follow easily. It was a delight-
ful path, which lay between rocks and a saucy little
brook that winter had not succeeded in binding with
ice fetters. He asked Mr. Macy to tell me there was
a tall white building across an intervening valley
from where we were standing. "Tell her it's a church,

OUR MARK TWAIN 6i

It used to stand on this side of the brook; but the
congregation moved it last summer when I told them
I had no use for it. I had no idea that New England
people were so accommodating. At that distance it
is just what a church should be — serene and pure
and mystical." We crossed the brook on a little rustic
footbridge. He said it was a prehistoric bridge, and
that the quiet brown pool underneath was the one
celebrated in the Songs of Solomon. I quoted the
passage he referred to : "Thine eyes like the fishpools
in Heshbon, by the gate of Bath-rabbim." It was a
joy being with him, holding his hand as he pointed
out each lovely spot and told some charming untruth
about it. He said, "The book of earth is wonderful.
I wish I had time to read it. I think if I had begun in
my youth, I might have got through the first chapter.
But it's too late to do anything about it now."

We wandered on and on, forgetful of time and
distance, beguiled by stream and meadow and seduc-
tive stone walls wearing their antumn draperies of
red and gold vines a little dimmed by rain and snow,
but still exquisitely beautiful. When we turned at
last, and started to climb the hill, Mr. Clemens
paused and stood gazing over the frosty New Eng-
land valley, and said, "Age is like this, we stand on
the summit and look back over the distance and
time. Alas, how swift are the feet of the days of the
years of youth." We realized that he was very tired,

62

MIDSTREAM

Mr. Macy suggested that he should return cross-
lots and meet us on the road with a carriage. Mr.
Clemens thought this a good idea, and agreed to
pilot Mrs. Macy and me to the road, which he had
every reason to suppose was just beyond that ele-
phant of a hill. Our search for that road was a won-
derful and fearsome adventure. It led through cow-
paths, across ditches filled with ice-cold water into
fields dotted with little islands of red and gold which
rose gently out of the white snow. On closer inspec-
tion we found that they were composed of patches
of dry goldenrod and huckleberry bushes. We
picked our way through treacherously smiling cart
roads. He said, ^'Every path leading out of this
jungle dwindles into a squirrel track and runs up
a tree." The cart roads proved to be ruts that en-
snared our innocent feet. Mr. Clemens had the wary
air of a discoverer as he turned and twisted between
spreading branches of majestic pines and dwarfed
hazel bushes. I remarked that we seemed to be away
off our course. He answered, ^'This is the uncharted
wilderness. We have wandered into the chaos that
existed before Jehovah divided the waters from the
land. The road is just over there," he asserted with
conviction. ''Yes," we murmured faintly, wondering
how we should ever ford the roaring, tumbling imp
of a stream which flung itself at us out of the hills.

OUR MARK TWAIN 63

There was no doubt about it. The road was just there
^'where you see that rail fence." Prophecy deepened
into happy certainty when we saw Mr. Macy and the
coachman waiting for us. "Stay where you are," they
shouted. In a few seconds they had dismembered the
rail fence and were transporting it over the field. It
did not take them long to construct a rough bridge,
over which we safely crossed the Redding Rubicon,
and sure enough, there was the narrow road of civi-
lization winding up the hillside between stone walls
and clustering sumachs and wild cherry trees on
which little icicles were beginning to form like
pendants. Half way down the drive Miss Lyon met
us with tearful reproaches. Mr. Clemens mumbled
weakly, "It has happened again — the woman tempted
me."

I think I never enjoyed a walk more. Sweet is the
memory of hours spent with a beloved companion.
Even being lost with Mr. Clemens was delightful,
although I was terribly distressed that he should be
exerting himself beyond his strength. He said many
beautiful things about Stormfield, for instance, "It
is my Heaven. Its repose stills my restlessness. The
view from every point is superb and perpetually
changes from miracle to miracle, yet nature never
runs short of new beauty and charm." I hope the
report is not true that he came to hate the place and

64 MIDSTREAM

feel that he had been defrauded of the society of his
fellow men. But I can understand that a tempera-
ment like Mr. Clemens's would grow weary of the
solitude.

The last evening of our visit we sat around a blaz-
ing log fire, and Mr. Clemens asked me if I would
like to have him read me "Eve's Diary." Of course I
was delighted.

He asked, "How shall we manage it?"

"Oh, you will read aloud, and my teacher will
spell your words into my hand."

He murmured, "I had thought you would read my
lips."

"I should like to, of course; but I am afraid you
will find it very wearisome. We'll start that way any-
how, and if it doesn't work, we'll try the other way."
This was an experience, I am sure, no other person in
the world had ever had.

"You know, Mr. Clemens," I reminded him, "that
we are going home to-morrow, and you promised
to put on your Oxford robe for me before I went."

"So, I did, Helen, and I will — I will do it now
before I forget."

Miss Lyon brought the gorgeous scarlet robe
which he had worn when England's oldest university
conferred upon him the degree of Doctor of Letters.
He put it on, and stood there in the fire light the
embodiment of gracious majesty. He seemed pleased

OUR MARK TWAIN 65

that I was impressed. He drew me towards him and
kissed me on the brow, as a cardinal or pope or
feudal monarch might have kissed a little child.

How I wish I could paint the picture of that
evening! Mr. Clemens sat in his great armchair,
dressed in his white serge suit, the flaming scarlet
robe draping his shoulders, and his white hair gleam-
ing and glistening in the light of the lamp which
shone down on his head. In one hand he held "Eve's
Diary" in a glorious red cover. In the other hand he
held his pipe. "If it gets in the way," he said, "I'll
give it up, but I feel embarrassed without it." I sat
down near him in a low chair, my elbow on the arm
of his chair, so that my fingers could rest lightly on
his lips. Mr. Macy lighted his cigar, and the play be-
gan. Everything went smoothly for a time. I had no
difl[iculty getting the words from his lips. His pleas-
ant drawl was music to my touch, but when he began
gesticulating with his pipe, the actors in the drama
got mixed up with the properties and there was con-
fusion until the ashes were gathered into the fire-
place. Then a new setting was arranged. Mrs. Macy
came and sat beside me and spelled the words into
my right hand, while I looked at Mr. Clemens with
my left, touching his face and hands and the book,
following his gestures and every changing expres-
sion. As the reading proceeded, we became utterly
absorbed in the wistful, tender chronicle of our first

66 MIDSTREAM

parents. Surely the joy, the innocence, the opening
mind of childhood are among life's most sacred
mysteries, and if young Eve laughs she makes crea-
tion all the sweeter for her Heaven-born merriment.
The beauty of Mr. Clemens's voice, v^hen Eve sighed
her love, and when Adam stood at her grave griev-
ing bitterly saying "wheresoever she was, there was
Eden" caused me to weep openly, and the others
swallowed audibly. Every one of us felt the yearn-
ing homesickness in that cry of pain.

To one hampered and circumscribed as I am it
was a wonderful experience to have a friend like Mr.
Clemens. I recall many talks with him about human
affairs. He never made me feel that my opinions were
worthless, as so many people do. He knew that we
do not think with eyes and ears, and that our capacity
for thought is not measured by five senses. He kept
me always in mind while he talked, and he treated
me like a competent human being. That is why I
loved him.

Perhaps my strongest impression of him was that
of sorrow. There was about him the air of one who
had suffered greatly. Whenever I touched his face
his expression was sad, even when he was telling a
funny story. He smiled, not with the mouth but with
his mind — a gesture of the soul rather than of the
face. His voice was truly wonderful. To my touch, it
was deep, resonant. He had the power of modulating

OUR MARK TWAIN 67

it so as to suggest the most delicate shades of mean-
ing and he spoke so deliberately that I could get
almost every word with my fingers on his lips. Ah,
how sweet and poignant the memory of his soft slow
speech playing over my listening fingers. His words
seemed to take strange lovely shapes on my hands. His
own hands were wonderfully mobile and changeable
under the influence of emotion. It has been said that
life has treated me harshly; and sometimes I have
complained in my heart because many pleasures of
human experience have been withheld from me, but
when I recollect the treasure of friendship that has
been bestowed upon me I withdraw all charges
against life. If much has been denied me, much, very
much has been given me. So long as the memory of
certain beloved friends live in my heart I shall say
that life is good.

The affluence of Mr. Clemens's mind impressed me
vividly. His felicitous words gushed from it with
the abundance of the Shasta Falls. Humour was on
the surface, but in the centre of his nature was a
passion for truth, harmony, beauty.

Once he remarked in his pensive, cynical way,
^'There is so little in life that is not pretence."

"There is beauty, Mr. Clemens."

"Yes, there is beauty, and beauty is the seed of
spirit from which we grow the flowers that shall
endure."

68 MIDSTREAM

I did not realize until I began this sketch how
extremely difficult it would be to recapture Mr.
Clemens's happy phrases from my memory. I am
afraid I should not have succeeded at all if I had
not made a few notes after my conversation with
him. But I believe I have never falsified a word or
an emphasis of the spirit of his utterances.

Time passed at Stormfield as it passes everywhere
else, and the day came when we had to say good-bye.
The kindly white figure stood on the verandah wav-
ing us farewell, as he had waved his welcome when
we arrived. Silently we watched the stately villa on
the white hilltop fading into the purple distance. We
said to each other sadly, "Shall we ever see him
again?" And we never did. But we three knew that
we had a picture of him in our hearts which would
remain there forever. In my fingertips was graven
the image of his dear face with its halo of shining
white hair, and in my memory his drawling, mar-
vellous voice will always vibrate.

I have visited Stormfield since Mark Twain's
death. The flowers still bloom; the breezes still
whisper and sough in the cedars, which have grown
statelier year by year ; the birds still sing, they tell
me. But for me the place is bereft of its lover. The
last time I was there, the house was in ruins. Only
the great chimney was standing, a charred pile of
bricks in the bright autumn landscape.

OUR MARK TWAIN 69

As I sat on the step where he had stood with me
one day, my hand warm in his, thoughts of him, like
shadowy presences, came and went, sweet with
memory and with regret. Then I fancied I felt
someone approaching me; I reached out, and a red
geranium blossom met my touch! The leaves of the
plant were covered with ashes, and even the sturdy
stalk had been partly broken off by a chip of falling
plaster. But there was the bright flower smiling at
me out of the ashes. I thought it said to me, "Please
don't grieve." I brought the plant home and set it
in a sunny corner of my garden, where always it
seems to say the same thing to me, "Please don't
grieve." But I grieve, nevertheless.

Chapter V

LEADING THE BLIND

I HAVE been writing about the play days in Wrent-
ham. I have not dwelt upon the perplexities I went
through trying to find my special niche in life. Even
while I was in college I had asked myself how I
could use the education I was receiving. I felt that
there must be some particular task for me, but what
was it?

My friends had all manner of plans. While I
was still at Radcliffe one of them conceived the idea
that I was wasting precious time on books and study
which would do nobody good. She said I was be-
coming self-centred and egotistical and that I could
accomplish more for humanity if I devoted myself to
the education of children afflicted like myself. She
told me that God had laid this work upon me and
that it was my duty to hearken to His voice. She said
it would not be necessary for us to do anything about
financing the project, that she would attend to it
herself. We begged her to wait until I finished my
education, but she said that procrastination was the
greatest of sins. She spent the night with us in Cam-
bridge, arguing, and as hour after hour passed my

70

LEADING THE BLIND 71

teacher and I became more and more exhausted. Our
friend was still charging our defences. She took our
feeble counterattack for surrender, and before we
were up the next morning she was off for New York
and Washington to acquaint my friends with the mis-
sion I had undertaken. She called on Dr. Alexander
Graham Bell, Mrs. Lawrence Hutton, Mr. Harsen
Rhoades,and many others,and told them how strongly
I felt that I must pass on the blessings I had enjoyed
to other deaf-blind children. Mrs. Hutton asked me
to come to New York and tell them how I felt in
the matter. I had written her that the project was
giving me infinite trouble, and seriously interfering
with my college work. We met in Mr. Rhoades's
private office in the Greenwich Savings Bank. Mr.
H. H. Rogers, who was financing my college course,
could not be present, and so he sent Mark Twain as
his representative. The matter was thoroughly
threshed out. When Mr. Clemens rose to speak he
said that, unlike the lady who was sponsoring the
scheme, he did not know what the Lord wanted him
to say, but that he did know what H. H. Rogers
wanted him to say. ''Mr. Rogers wishes it to be un-
derstood," he said, "that he does not intend to finance
any of the Lord's projects on the recommendation
of Mrs. So and So. She seems thoroughly familiar
with the Lord's intentions. She made it clear in her
conversation that her plan for a school for afflicted

72 MIDSTREAM

children embodied His idea exactly. I couldn't help
wondering how she got every detail of the divine idea
right when there were no written instructions. Per-
haps the Lord appointed her His deputy with power
to act for Him. There is no other possible explana-
tion of how, out of the countless good ideas for this
institution, she was able to pick the one which had
the Deity's sanction every time."

All through my life people who imagine them-
selves more competent than my teacher and I have
wanted to organize my affairs. No doubt it would
have been to our advantage if some of these ideas
had been carried out. On the other hand, it is hard
to see how all their excellent suggestions could
have been followed ; for they had opposite aims. We
were strangers when we met. Usually we were
friends for a space of time, but when we parted, the
bonds of our friendship creaked considerably, and
on several occasions they snapped. These friends
pointed out our incompetence, and assured us that
if we followed their plan, we should win fame and
fortune, and incidentally benefit some good cause.
They talked, they wrote, they brought their friends
to help them, and went away, and the next day others
came. Sometimes it was necessary, as in the case of
the plan about which I have just written, to call
upon my staunch friends Mr. Rogers, Mrs. Hutton,
and Mrs. William Thaw, to get me out of their toils.

LEADING THE BLIND 73

Some of these entanglements had memorable and
unfortunate consequences for me.

There was an effort on the part of Mr. Anagnos,
the successor of Dr. Howe as director of the Perkins
Institution for the Blind when I was a little girl to
keep my teacher and me at the Institution. Miss
Sullivan thought that it would be detrimental to my
development to remain in an institution. She has
always believed that handicapped people should not
be herded together when it is possible to keep them in
a normal environment. There were many reasons why
it would have been delightful for me to live at the
Institution. Nearly everyone there could spell to me,
and I was happy with the blind children. Moreover,
I loved Mr. Anagnos like a father. He was ex-
ceedingly kind to me, and I owe him some of the
brightest memories of my childhood ; best of all, it
was he who sent my teacher to me. When we left the
Institution and went on our wayward quest of edu-
cation Mr. Anagnos bitterly resented what he was
pleased to call Miss Sullivan's ingratitude, and shut
us out from his heart. I like to think that if he lived,
he would have come to see that she chose the wiser
course.

Some of the would-be directors of my life have
staged the little dramas in which I was to play the
leading role with such delicate art, they almost
seemed like my own conceptions, and their failure

74 MIDSTREAM

to materialize gloriously has hurt my pride not a
little. The beautiful Queen of Roumania, who used
to write to me under her nom de plume, Carmen
Sylva, had a plan for gathering all the blind of her
kingdom into one place and giving them pleasant
homes and employment. This city was to be called
"Vatra Luminosa" — "Luminous Hearth." She
wanted me to help her finance it. The idea had its
origin in a generous heart; but it was not in accord-
ance with modern methods of helping the sightless to
help themselves. I wrote Queen Elizabeth that I
did not feel that I could cooperate with her. She was
deeply hurt. She thought I was selfish and had not
the true happiness of the blind at heart. Our pleasant
correspondence was broken off, and I never heard
direct from her again.

But I cannot leave this subject without a word of
appreciation of the friends who have not tried to
manage me. Curiously enough, they are the ones who
have contributed most to my usefulness and joy. If
those who believe in us, and give money to enable
us to realize our ambitions, have a right to a say in
the shaping of our lives, certainly my teacher, my
mother, Mr. Rogers, Mr. Carnegie, Mrs. Thaw,
and Dr. Bell had that right; but they never exer-
cised it in word or deed. And since they left me free
to choose my own work (within my limitations) I
looked about to see what there was that I could do.

LEADING THE BLIND 75

I resolved that whatever role I did play in life it
would not be a passive one.

Before I left Radcliffe I had heard the call of the
sightless. In 1903, while I was a junior, I received
a visit from an enthusiastic young man, Mr. Charles
F. F. Campbell, whom I had met while he was still
a student at the Massachusetts Institute of Tech-
nology. I knew about his famous father, Sir Francis
Campbell, an American blind man, educated at the
Perkins Institution, who founded the Royal Normal
College and Academy of Music for the Blind in
England and was knighted by the King for his
services to the sightless. Young Mr. Campbell wished
me to join an association which had just been formed
by the Women's Educational and Industrial Union
in Boston to promote the welfare of the adult blind. I
did so, and soon after I appeared before the legisla-
ture with the new association to urge the necessity of
employment for the blind and to ask for the appoint-
ment of a State Commission that would make them
their special care. The commission was appointed,
and although I did not know it at the time, the cur-
tain rose on my life work.

The association established an experimental sta-
tion under Mr. Campbell's direction for the purpose
of testing oul: industries that seemed practicable. The
blind were taught trades in their homes and a sales
rgom was opened in Boston for the disposal of their

76 MIDSTREAM

wares. The new Commission opened a series of shops
in different parts of the state, and a great movement
was launched in which Mr. Campbell was the leader
until 1922. No one in our day has done more to put
the blind on an equal footing with the seeing. I have
never ceased to lament that he is no longer connected
with the work and I hope the day is not distant when
he will again join our crusade against darkness.

It was not until the autumn of 1904, after we had
moved to Wrentham, that I seriously began to study
blindness and the problems it creates. I found that
one of the greatest needs was a central clearing house.
Much time and money were wasted in unorganized
effort. Scarcely anyone in Massachusetts knew what
was being done in other parts of the United States.
There was "a separation in space and spirit" between
the various schools and societies which rendered it
very difficult to collect and distribute information.
There was no accurate census of the blind in
America. Nor was there a national survey of occu-
pations. There was no central group to go out into
new territory and start the work for the blind. There
was no bureau of research or information. The ap-
paratus used by the blind was primitive. Books were
expensive and there was no unified system of em-
bossed printing.

The first printing ever done in relief was in an
embossed Roman letter. It was never satisfactory.

LEADING THE BLIND 77

The classroom instruction in literature and music
remained chiefly oral. Tangible writing was impos-
sible. But with the introduction of Braille's alphabet
of raised dots that could easily be felt by the finger
and arranged in combinations to represent letters,
the era of educating the blind, as we understand it
to-day, began. Every pupil could learn to read it
and to write it. It was of universal application : to
any language, longhand or shorthand, to mathematics
and to music. As a system it was and is adequate to
all purposes. More than any other single lever it has
served to lift the educational status of blind people.

Its inventor, Louis Braille, blinded by accident at
the age of three years, became first a pupil and then
a teacher at the National Institution for the Blind
in Paris, which was the parent of all such schools. At
the age of sixteen he had worked out his alphabetical
system, boldly addressing it to the finger only, not at
all to the eye; and he had supplied a slate to write it
on. The whole world of educated blind people uses
it to-day, practically as he left it. Next to Valentin
Haiiy himself, the founder of the first school for
the blind, we consider Louis Braille our greatest
benefactor.

Unfortunately, Dr. Howe, the director of the
Massachusetts School for the Blind, whose word
carried more weight than that of anyone else in
America, rejected this invention and continued to

78 MIDSTREAM

print books in the Roman letter, and other schools
in America followed the example of Massachusetts.
But the greater part of the blind could not read the
Roman letter. Naturally, they wanted something they
could read, and so a number of dot systems sprang up
all over the United States. The confusion of prints
yvent from bad to worse. Each party clung tenaciously
to its own theory, and the blind themselves had no
voice in the matter. It was so expensive to make
books in the different systems that the number re-
mained extremely limited, and furthermore the
multiplicity of prints resulted in duplication. Even
our magazines were printed in several different
types, thus multiplying the expense of their produc-
tion. I learned five different prints — New York point,
American braille, European braille. Moon, and Line
type — in order to avail myself of all that had been
printed for the blind. The Bible and other books
universally demanded were printed in all five sys-
tems.

The condition of the adult blind was almost hope-
less. Many of them were idle and in want, and not a
few of them were in almshouses. Many had lost their
sight when it was too late to go to school. They were
without occupation or diversion or resources of any
kind. The crudest part of their fate then as now was
not blindness but the feeling that they were a burden
tQ their families or the community.

LEADING THE BLIND 79

I was surprised to find when I talked to seeing
persons well informed about other matters, a medi-
,feval ignorance concerning the sightless. They assured
me that the blind can tell colours by touch and that
the senses they have are more delicate and acute than
those of other people. Nature herself, they told me,
seeks to atone to the blind by giving them a singular
sensitiveness and a sweet patience of spirit. It seemed
not to occur to them that if this were true it would
be an advantage to lose one's sight.

The most important phase of all the work, namely,
the prevention of blindness in new-born children,
could not even be discussed. The medical profession
had known since 1881 that at least two thirds of the
children admitted to the schools had been blinded
as a result of a germ which attacked the eyes in the
process of birth, and that the disease caused by this
infection, ophthalmia neonatorum, was easily pre-
ventable. But because it was associated with venereal
disease, though not always caused by it, very few
had the courage to bring the matter to the attention
of the public. By 1900 a number of physicians had
done this, among them Dr. F. Park Lewis of Buffalo,
Dr. A. Morrow of New York, and Dr. North of
Boston. It was this group that began urging the
association and commission I had joined to take up
the work of prevention, and a lay campaign was
started which resulted in the formation of a National

8o MIDSTREAM

Committee for the Prevention of Blindness, which is
still active.

A few years later when I visited Kansas City, the
physicians in charge of the eye clinic there asked me
to see if I could persuade Colonel Nelson, editor of
the Kansas City Star, to allow blindness in the new-
born to be discussed in his paper. At first he refused;
but when he saw how disappointed I was, he said,
"Well, write what you have to say, and I'll see what
I can do." I Wrote out the facts for him, and he
printed the article on the front page of the Star,
Thus another barrier was broken down before the
march of progress.

The year 1907 was a banner year for the blind.
Mr. Edward Bok threw open the pages of the Ladies'
Home Journal for a frank discussion of the causes of
blindness and I wrote a series of articles for him.
Other periodicals of more or less prominence fol-
lowed suit, and a great barrier went down before the
march of progress. It was in 1907 that the Matilda
Ziegler Magazine for the Blind was established. It
was financed by Mrs. William Ziegler of New York,
whose generosity has created more real happiness for
the sightless than that of any other living person. For
twenty years the magazine has been edited by Mr.
Walter Holmes, who has won for himself a warm
chimney corner in the hearts of all the blind. This
same year Mr. Campbell began issuing The Outlook

LEADING THE BLIND 8i

for the Blind, the first magazine in America to bring
together all matters of interest concerning the sight-
less. He carried it through sixteen years without any
financial return to himself and during all that period
succeeded in holding the good will of those who
were battling over the types.

It was in 1907 or 1908, I think, that I was asked to
prepare a paper on the blind for an Encyclopedia of
Education. This rather took my breath away, for it
was before I was familiar with the history of their
education, and the only book available on the sub-
ject was in German, Alexander Mell's Blindenwesen.
It was not in raised letters, and so Mr. Macy read
it to me after his day's work. As I penetrated more
deeply into the problems of the blind he also read
me Diderot's rich, suggestive essay on blindness, and
a French story. Sous les Trembles, which invested
blind people with a stirring human interest.

The more I did the more the requests multiplied.
Over and over I was asked to write articles and at-
tend meetings and speak to legislatures. Repeatedly
I was invited to go abroad and visit the schools of
France, Germany, England, and Italy, to interest
people in the deaf or the blind.

Dr. Bell and Dr. James Kerr Love of Scotland
were urging me to bring the problems of the deaf
before the public, and although I was as deeply
interested in the cause of the deaf as I was in that of

82 MIDSTREAM

the blind and had always thought deafness before the
acquisition of language a greater affliction than
blindness, I found that it was not humanly possible
to work for both the blind and the deaf at the same
time.

I did everything I could and several times made
addresses, although my voice could be understood
only in a small auditorium, and I had had no train-
ing in public speaking. An occasion I especially re-
member was when I went to the St. Louis Exposition
in the hope of creating a wider interest in children
who were deaf and blind.

I was to speak one morning before a gathering of
educators. The crowd was so great that it was obvious
that I could not be heard. Mr. David Rowland
Francis, President of the Exposition, who had a fine
speaking voice, offered to read my address, but I had
not brought a copy with me. *'Well," he said, "I
understand you perfectly. I will repeat what you
say." In fear and trembling I began. He kept his
hand on my arm to signal me when to stop and when
to go on. After half a dozen sentences I was satisfied
that all was going well. When he finished we both
received an ovation.

In the meanwhile the crowd around the building
had become so dense that it was impossible for us
to get through it. Mrs. Macy and I were separated
from our escort, our clothing was torn, and the

LEADING THE BLIND 83

flowers were snatched ofif my hat for souvenirs. Mr.
Francis called out the guards to disperse the crowd
and we were given six stalwart soldiers to conduct
us through the grounds.

In spite of this warm-hearted reception, nothing
constructive was done for the deaf-blind of America.
And now, after more than twenty years, I still grieve
that so few of these little unhappy ones have been
led out of their imprisonment. No moments in my
life are sadder than those in which I have felt their
groping hands in mine, mutely appealing for help I
could not give. But it is useless to repine. I mention
my young dream of their deliverance only because
it is sweet to remember.

Life was very strenuous. Often we would leave
home with all the housework undone, hasten to a
meeting, go through with its inevitable tiresome
social functions, and return to Wrentham to find
fresh tasks added to our already heavy burden. It is
not strange that we both broke down several times
after a series of public appearances. The requests and
must-be-written letters continued to multiply — they
would have kept a whole staff of assistants busy if we
could have afforded it.

We were hemmed in on all sides by unromantic
obstacles. I had hoped to translate Maurice de la
Sizeranne's Psychologic des Femmes Aveugles be-
cause it contained much valuable information about

84 MIDSTREAM

the education of the blind in France. There was
nothing in this country comparable with it except
possibly Dr. Howe's reports of his work at the
Massachusetts School, and these, unfortunately, were
not generally available and naturally were not as
up-to-date as the French book. Someone in Germany
sent me a small volume of poems by Lorm, who lost
both his sight and his hearing in adult life and who
wrote many lines of courage and beauty about "The
inner Sun I create in my Soul." But there were no
adequate dictionaries of foreign languages in braille,
and it was impossible for Mr. and Mrs. Macy to
read me all the books I should have liked to put into
English. We could not have paid a special reader
even if the right kind had been forthcoming.

During many years we had no servant. I learned to
do all I could without sight to help my teacher. Mr.
Macy went to Boston every morning, and Mrs. Macy
drove him to the train and attended to the marketing.
I cleared the table, washed the dishes, and tidied up
the rooms. Letters might come in multitudes, articles
and books might clamour to be written, but home
was home, and somebody had to make the beds, pick
the flowers, start the windmill and stop it when the
tank was filled, and be mindful of the little almost
unnoticed things which constitute the happiness of
family life. Of course I could not take the helm of

LEADING THE BLIND 85

the ship in hand, but I found tasks sufficient to keep
me on my feet most of the day, and everyone who
loves knows how gratifying it is to be able really to
help others through a hard day's routine.

We were pursued by misunderstandings. Not long
after we had started our Wrentham home life an
incident occurred which explains how such mis-
understandings began. Madame Elizabeth Nordin,
a Swedish educator, called on us one day and talked
with us for hours. She said she was in charge of a
school for deaf-blind children in Sweden, and was
visiting America for the purpose of studying the best
methods to educate her pupils. We gladly gave her
what information we could. She asked me to speak
in French and German, and seemed surprised that
I could pronounce the words as well as I did. She
was full of pleasant compliments, and embraced me
cordially when she departed. Afterwards we learned
that she was indignant because we had not offered to
entertain her as our guest for three weeks while she
was studying American schools for the sightless! She
had told me with amusement the myths she had read
about me — that I could paint pictures and play the
piano, and that I had a great gift for sculpture. Yet
when she returned to Sweden she disseminated myths
quite as absurd as these. She wrote an article full of
misinformation in which she said I had received

86 MIDSTREAM

every honour at Radcliffe, and that Boston had pre-
sented me with a house and a park! It was she who
gave the educators of the blind in Europe exagger-
ated accounts of my good fortune and liberal friends,
and unparalleled opportunities to help all the deaf-
blind to be taught and placed in homes where they
would be well cared for ! While professing the utmost
devotion to ''the poor, unhappy, doubly afflicted ones
whose fate I shared," she placed me in a trying posi-
tion from which I have never been able to extricate
myself. It was she who brought upon my dear ones
and me all the remonstrances and disappointed ex-
postulations of people who believed I could help
them. If any of my European friends happen to read
this record, I hope they will understand that my
refusals were not because I was indifferent.

We tried to change our mode of living into some-
thing like what we had hoped for when we moved
to Wrentham, but we never succeeded. Now and
then we resolutely withdrew from the world, to use
the mediaeval phrase, and applied ourselves each to
his or her own task. We barricaded ourselves with the
sacrosanct privacy to which tradition and the neces-
sities of concentrated thinking entitle writers and
artists. But in spite of our attempted hermit life, we
were imperatively called out to new duties.

It was in the summer of 1906 that my teacher and
I assumed the additional responsibility of attending

LEADING THE BLIND 87

the sessions of the Massachusetts Commission for the
Blind, of which the Governor appointed me a mem-
ber. Mrs. Macy sat beside me hour after hour, as she
had done in college, and spelled to me everything
that v^as said. We had found it a tax upon our facul-
ties to keep up with the lecture of one professor
talking steadily for a whole hour; but at these meet-
ings we were breathless with the effort to keep up
with comments, criticisms, questions and replies
exchanged rapidly by four or five different persons,
and the endless minutiae which characterize the
sessions of a state board. From the beginning I was
full of misgivings as to my qualifications for serving
on the board. The more I listened to the discussions
the less competent I felt to take part in them. It
is never a simple matter to assist the blind. There
are no rules which can be applied in all cases, because
the circumstances and needs of each blind person
differ from those of every other. It is, therefore,
necessary to decide individually what method is best.
The other commissioners had advantages which I
did not. They could go from place to place visiting
the blind, obtaining first hand information about
their needs, and giving them expert advice as to the
best means of overcoming their handicap. Besides, I
was hampered by the slowness of my speech and
never spoke up as I should when my turn came. In
college the professor talked on the same subject

88

MIDSTREAM

connectedly, and indicated any change of thought;
but when several people are talking the viewpoint
shifts constantly, and the felicitous remark which is
on the tip of one's tongue never gets uttered. Of
course this is true of most conversation, but I was
chagrined at my useless figure in a group of earnest
servants of the public seeking to promote a cause
which truly appealed to me. After some months I
resigned from the Commission, and I resolved sternly
that never again would I allow myself to be dragged
into undertakings for which I was not intended by
fate.

I knew now that my work was to be for the blind,
and I had begun to realize that I could not do for
them what I wanted unless I could present their
problems for discussion before legislatures, medical
associations, and conventions, more competently than
I had done before. To do that I must improve my
speech.

I had tried a number of teachers and had always
been disappointed. But during the Christmas holi-
days in 1909 when we were at Woodstock, Vermont,
we met Mr. Charles A. White, a well-known teacher
of singing at the Boston Conservatory of Music. At
that time he had been very much interested in my
speech and expressed a wish to sec what he could do
with it. A year later wc arranged to have him come
out to Wrentham every Saturday and stay over Sun-

LEADING THE BLIND 89

day that he might give me lessons. The old longing
to speak like other people came back stronger than
ever. I felt the tide of opportunity rising and longed
for a voice that would be equal to the surge that was
sweeping me out into the world.

Chapter VI

PER ARDUA PROXIME AD ASTRA

The acquirement of speech is not easy for those who
cannot hear. The difficulties are doubled if they are
blind also. But the educational importance of speech
to the deaf cannot be exaggerated. Without a lan-
guage of some sort one is not a human being; without
speech one is not a complete human being. Even
when the speech is not beautiful there is a fountain
of joy in uttering words. It is an emotional experience
quite different from that which comes from spelled
words.

When Miss Sullivan took me for my first lessons

in articulation to Miss Sarah Fuller, principal of

the Horace Mann School for the Deaf, and one of

the pioneer teachers of speech in this country, I was

nearly ten years of age. The only sounds I uttered

were meaningless noises, usually harsh because of

the great effort I made to produce them. Miss Fuller

put my hand on her face, so that I could feel the

vibrations of her voice, and slowly and very distinctly

made the sound "ahm," while Miss Sullivan spelled

into my hand the word arm. I imitated the sound as

90

PER ARDUA PROXIME AD ASTRA 91

well as I could, and succeeded after several attempts
in articulating it to Miss Fuller's satisfaction.

I learned to speak several words that day in
breathy, hollow tones. After eleven lessons I was able
to say, word by word, "I-am-not-dumb-now." Miss
Fuller tried to make me understand that I must speak
softly, and not stiffen my throat or jerk my tongue,
but I could not help straining and mouthing every
word. I know now that my lessons should have been
conducted differently. My vocal organs should have
been developed first, and articulation afterwards.

This would have approached the normal method
of learning speech. The normal baby hears sounds
from the moment he is born into the world. He lis-
tens more or less passively. Then he cries and coos,
and in countless ways exercises the delicate organs of
speech before he attempts a word. Speech descends
upon his lips like dew upon a flower. Without effort
or conscious thought he utters spontaneous melodious
sounds.

How different is the situation of the little deaf
child ! He hears no sound. No voice enters the silent
cloister of his ear. Even if he has heard for
a little while, as I did for nineteen months, he soon
forgets. In his still world words once heard fly
like swallows in the autumn, leaving no memory
of their music. He does not use his vocal organs,
because he feels no desire to speak. He goes

92 MIDSTREAM

to school and learns slowly, painfully, to substitute
his eyes for his ears. Intently he watches his teacher's
mouth as she makes a sound, and patiently he tries
to form his lips and move his tongue in imitation.
Every step is won at the cost of painful effort.

Four years after I went to Miss Fuller I entered
the Wright-Humason Oral School in New York,
where for two years I received lessons in speech and
lip reading. From that time until I began to study
with Mr. White, Miss Sullivan helped me as well as
she could to improve my articulation. I was happy
because my family could understand me, also those
who met me frequently enough to become accustomed
to my speech. I found out that to speak at all intel-
ligibly meant the incessant mastery of difficulties
that had been mastered a thousand times. For years
I put my hand on Miss Sullivan's face, observed the
motions of her lips, put my fingers in her mouth to
feel the position of her tongue, and repeated over and
Dver the sounds she uttered, sometimes imitating them
perfectly, then losing them again. Yet I never wav-
ered in my determination to learn to talk, nor did
she waver in her determination to help me.

It is to her that I owe most of the progress I made
in this, as in everything else. Her work with me has
been based on instinctive good sense rather than on
technical knowledge of vocal problem's. By per-
sistent effort she improved my diction and kept my

PER ARDUA PROXIME AD ASTRA 93

voice as pleasant as was possible under the circum-
stances. She has tried to cultivate softness, but this
very process tended to make the vocal organs deficient
in resonance. Moreover, the enormous amount of
work required for my education rendered it difficult
to give my speech sufficient attention. This was un-
fortunate, because in those formative years much
more could have been done for my voice, and more
easily than now. I say this to emphasize the need of
early and continuous training throughout the grow-
ing years of the deaf child.

At first Mr. White and I regarded my speech
lessons as experimental. But he became so interested
in the problems that presented themselves at each
lesson that he continued to teach me for three years.
He spent the greater part of two summers in Wrent-
ham. He would not take money for these lessons,
declaring that he would be amply repaid if he
succeeded in helping me. His delightful personality,
his patience and perseverance and his quick sympathy
endeared him to us all. I have a memory picture of
his kind, expressive face which I cherish, and of his
dear hand spelling out instructions without end. My
heart warms as I recall the tireless encouragement
with which he braced me when I failed and failed.

I can give only a brief account of Mr. White's
work with me here. He learned the manual alphabet
so he could work with me just as he would with any

94 MIDSTREAM

other pupil. First, he directed my attention to posi-
tion and breathing, and proceeded to get the lower
ribs and diaphragm to participate more freely in the
act of respiration. I then practised to open the reso-
nating cavities through inhalation, and maintain this
position through control of breath. His idea was to
get the cavities of resonance under the control of the
will before using the larynx. I therefore practised
exercises without tone. The failure of my vocal
chords to come together was the chief defect, and I
still have much trouble in getting proper glottic
closure. After securing this, I experimented in dif-
ferent degrees of resistance in order to vary the
tension of the chords.

Having obtained some control of these three fac-
tors of voice — motor, vibrator, and resonator — I
studied vowels and consonants separately and in
combination. Mr. White classified them according to
a plan which he had thought out and used in his
work with his pupils in the Conservatory.

After this drill, I was ready to practise actual
speech. But when Mr. White tried to give me accents
and rhythm, he found that although I could recog-
nize the changes of accent and rhythm he gave me, I
could not project rhythms myself. Therefore it was
necessary for him to train this sense. After repeated
trials I got two units of equal duration, which opened
the way for further development. Mr. White did this

PER ARDUA PROXIME AD ASTRA 95

by patting my hand, first taking double, then triple
and quadruple, measure, in simple and compound
forms, and in syncopation. After this preparatory
work, Mr. White was surprised that I could not
coordinate the spoken word with the motion of the
hand. This difficulty was soon overcome, however,
and rhythm and accent could be utilized.

Finally came the matter of pitch and quality. At
first I showed no ability to raise or lower the pitch
at will, and had to experiment with it. By this time
I had become somewhat expert in detecting the
changes which took place in the throat by lightly
placing my fingers on Mr. White's throat and my
own, and when he started a tone in a low pitch and
suddenly raised it, say, an octave, I soon caught the
idea. To Mr. White's amazement, after following
this method for some time, he found that I could
approximate definite pitches. He would ask me to
sing an octave on ''sol," and I did it from my own
sense of pitch. Then he asked for an octave one
note higher, ''La, la." When I sounded the note, Mr.
White struck a tuning fork against the desk. My
tone corresponded with that of the fork, and I also
sounded the intervals of a third and a fifth.

It was a long time before he could build my voice
up so that I could practise anything for the platform.
Then the voice we had laboured for so hopefully
became quite unmanageable. It would dive down so

96 MIDSTREAM

low or jump up so high that we were all discon-
certed. A little rain or wind or dust, a wave of excite-
ment, was enough to send it on a rampage, and I
still marvel at the forbearance of the family who had
to hear me morning, afternoon, and evening. A hear-
ing person speaks a language learned he knows not
how, and can f oreshape his words without conscious
thought. I had not this boon of nature. What I said
at night in one way I would say the next morning
very differently, the sensations varied so disturbingly
from day to day. A multitude of little vibrations that
I had not noticed before bewildered me. I would
practise, practise, and perhaps capture a firm, clear
tone, only to have it escape me mysteriously. If I let
fall a natural utterance without thinking, and tried
to repeat it, it eluded me.

It was three years before we felt I might try a
public appearance. Then it was arranged that my
teacher and I should give a demonstration of her
work and my speech in Montclair, New Jersey. It
was in February, 1913.

I wonder if anyone has ever made his first ap-
pearance upon the platform with keener anguish.
Terror invaded my flesh, my mind froze, my heart
stopped beating. I kept repeating, "What shall I do?
What shall I do to calm this tumult within me?"
Desperately I prayed, as the moment approached to
go out before the audience, "O God, let me pour

PER ARDUA PROXIME AD ASTRA 97

out my voice freely." I know I felt much as General
Wolfe's men must have felt when in broad daylight
they measured with their eyes the Heights of Abra-
ham they had scaled in the dark — walls bristling with
cannon !

Oh, that first appearance in Montclair, New
Jersey! Until my dying day I shall think of that stage
as a pillory where I stood cold, riveted, trembling,
voiceless. Words thronged to my lips, but no syllable
could I utter. At last I forced a sound. It felt to me
like a cannon going off, but they told me afterwards
it was a mere whisper.

I tried to remember everything Mr. White had told
me to do, but alas! Not a rule came to my assistance.
Mustering all the will power and obstinacy of my
nature I went on to the end of the speech. I was
constantly between Charybdis and Scylla ; sometimes
I felt my voice soaring and I knew that meant
falsetto ; frantically I dragged it down till my words
fell about me like loose bricks. Oh, if that kindly
custom of Athens, that of accompanying an orator
with a flute, could have prevailed, or if only an
orchestra could have drowned my faltering speech,
it would not have been so terrible. At last the ordeal
was over. Everyone was kind and sympathetic, but I
knew I had failed. All the eloquence which was to
bring light to the blind lay crumpled at my feet. I
came off the stage in despair, my face deluged with

98 MIDSTREAM

tears, my breast heaving with sobs, my whole body
crying out, "Oh, it is too difficult, too difficult, I
cannot do the impossible." But in a little while faith
and hope and love came back and I returned to my
practising.

I have not succeeded completely in realizing the
desire of my childhood to "talk like other people."
I know now how vain that wish was, and how ex-
travagant my expectations were when I began my
speech lessons. It is not humanly possible, I believe,
for one who has been deaf from early infancy to do
more than approximate natural speech.

Since my tenth year I have laboured unceasingly
to speak so that others can understand me without
concentrated attention. I have had excellent instruc-
tors and the constant assistance of my teacher. Yet I
have only partially conquered the hostile silence. I
have a voice that ministers to my work and my happi-
ness. It is not a pleasant voice, I am afraid, but I have
clothed its broken wings in the unfading hues of my
dreams and my struggle for it has strengthened every
fibre of my being and deepened my understanding of
all human strivings and disappointed ambitions.

Chapter VII

WANDERINGS

We lectured only occasionally at first, as we were
feeling our way towards a programme which would
be acceptable to our audiences. All kinds of people
came to hear us — the poor, the young, the blind, the
deaf, and others handicapped in the race of life, and
naturally their interest in me made me want to give
them special messages of cheer or encouragement.

We were warmly received wherever we went, and
encouraged to go on with our work. Mrs. Macy had
a natural gift of public speaking, and I was fre-
quently told by strangers with what pleasure the
audience listened to her story of how she taught me.
She lectured a whole hour, while I sat quietly in the
anteroom, reading to pass the time. When my turn
came, my mother, or anyone who happened to ac-
company us, brought me to the platform. I placed
iriy fingers on Mrs. Macy's mouth, and we showed
the audience how I could read the lips. The people
asked questions, and I answered them as well as I
could. Thus they became more accustomed to my
imperfect speech. Afterwards I talked about happi-
ness, or the value of the senses when well trained, or

99

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MIDSTREAM

the intimate dependence of all human beings one
upon another in the emergencies of life. I never
attained ease of delivery or pleasantness of voice.
There v^ere times, I am sure, when the audience
could not follow me at all. Either my voice w^ould
rise into a queer falsetto, or it v^ould dive down in
the depths. It shunned the via media. I swallowed
the very words I especially wanted my listeners to
hear. I pushed and strained, I pounded. I defeated
myself with tQo much effort. I committed every sin
against the dignity and grace of speech. The slightest
noise I felt in the hall was disconcerting, as I could
not tell if I was heard or not, and I almost collapsed
when a chair was moved, or a street car rattled past
the doors. But the audience was always patient.
Whether they understood me or not, they showered
me with good wishes and flowers and encouragement,
as the Lord loads us with benefits despite our imper-
fections. Little by little they began to get more of
what I said. One of my happiest moments was when
I spoke to a large number of children at a school
on the East Side in New York, and they were able to
understand me when I repeated "Mary had a little
lamb." Always I was compensated for my crippled
speech by the interest and enthusiasm with which my
teacher's lecture on my education was received. I was
told by those who heard her more than once that it
always seemed as if she were giving her story for the

WANDERINGS

lOI

first time, she put such freshness and imagination and
love into it. Sometimes the audience was so silent that
we were rather disturbed, thinking that we had bored
them ; but afterwards I found out that they were so
interested in my teacher's story, they forgot to ap-
plaud, and we felt it the highest compliment they
could have paid us.

At first we lectured only occasionally in New
England, New York, New Jersey, and other states
near by, but little by little we began to go farther
afield. I

We spoke at the opening of the New York Light- |
house for the Blind by Henry Holt's beautiful j
daughter who is now Mrs. Mather. On that occasion \
we met President Taft who had a second time left
his arduous duties in Washington to lift up his voice
for the cause of the sightless. I shall always picture
him, big, kind, benevolent, as he exhorted the audi-
ence, "Let us bring about as nearly as possible equal
opportunity for the seeing and those who are denied
the blessings of sight."

The Lighthouse grew out of one of the happiest
thoughts of our generation. One day Mrs. Mather
and her sister saw some blind boys enjoying a con-
cert in Italy. Others had seen blind persons enjoy
music, but had not acted upon the suggestions it
offered. When these two young ladies came back to
New York they formed a committee for the distri-

102

MIDSTREAM

bution among the blind of unsold tickets to concerts.
Thus they came into contact with the needs of the
blind, and it was not long before they were asking
themselves and others why the blind should not be
employed. They were told that in the world of ma-
chinery, specialized industry, and keen competition,
the blind man could not expect to find profitable
occupation. They were even told that it would be
cruel to add the burden of labour to the burden of
infirmity. As if to be without work were not the
heaviest burden mortal could be called upon to
endure!

They organized the New York Association for the
Blind and opened the first Lighthouse. The work
has grown strong and prospered these many years
under the direction of Mrs. Mather. She tells the
public, "We do not ask for charity but for justice —
for an opportunity for your blind brother and sister
to have a fair chance. Won't you help to give it to
them, and won't you give yourself the rare oppor-
tunity of investing in a gift of light? Help us by
your generosity to approach successfully our ideals of
service. As that great friend of our organization in
its early days, Carl Schurz, said: ^Ideals are like
stars — ^you cannot touch them with your fingers, but
like the mariner on the desert of waters, you can
follow them, and following come to port.' "

In 191 3 I spoke in Washington. I went down

WANDERINGS 103

shortly before the inauguration of Woodow Wilson
to attend a woman suffrage demonstration and
stayed through the inauguration because the United
Press asked me to report the event for its papers. I
remember that it was a mild, gray day. I felt no sun,
but a slight breeze. It was good marching weather
for the troops, and I noticed a delightful smell of
spring in the air. We waited about two hours before
the parade began. The crowd was already consider-
able. It kept increasing, and I felt the masses of
humanity as they moved up the steps, causing the
stand to vibrate. It was a clean, good-natured crowd,
and I enjoyed being in a multitude of men, women,
and children who were having a good time. I liked
best of all the rich and far-rolling music of the bands
and the descriptions my teacher and Mr. Macy gave
me of the handsome troops. The parade was ornate,
elaborate, and expensive, but it was very jolly, and
as regiment after regiment passed I could not help
wishing that our soldiers never had to do anything
but look handsome and salute the President.

I should have been more deeply stirred if I could
have felt that the great ceremony ushered in a new
day. For Mr. Wilson himself I had the highest re-
spect, but I felt, even then, that the forces arrayed
against him were stronger than he could combat.

I had met him some years before at Mr. Lawrence
Mutton's on the occasion of which I have already

I04 MIDSTREAM

spoken when Mark Twain denounced the murder of
noncombatants in the Philippines by American sol-
diers. During the whole of Mr. Clemens's speech
while the rest of us were listening breathlessly Mr.
Wilson sat at a window looking out into the night.
When Mr. Hutton asked him what he thought of it
he replied something like this: '^Much heroism does
not always keep military men from committing
follies." He asked me why I had chosen Radcliffe
College rather than Wellesley, Smith, or Bryn
Mawr. I said, "Because they didn't want me at Rad-
cliffe, and as I was stubborn by nature, I chose to
override their objections." He asked if I thought a
personal triumph was worth the expenditure it en-
tailed. Mr. Wilson was exceedingly reserved, but I
did not think he was cold. Far from it. He seemed
like a smouldering fire that might blaze up at any
moment. I gathered from the conversation round
Mr. Hutton's table that most of the men thought him
shrewd, and that his wisdom surpassed that of most
scholars of the day.

There is no way of measuring what President
Wilson might have accomplished for his country if
the War had not upset the world. History must judge
the men who are entrusted with power by the bless-
ings they confer on mankind. It seems like bitter
irony to ask whether President Wilson did all that
was possible under the circumstances which sur-

WANDERINGS 105

rounded him. If we judge him by the rule of his
associates at Versailles, his conduct was not more
reprehensible than theirs; but if we judge him by
the standard of his intentions, his failure was colossal.
Commander-in-chief of a vast and splendidly
equipped army with inexhaustible resources, and
head of a country that was the provider and creditor
of all Europe, it seems as if he might have stood
steadfast, especially as the good will of the common
people of all countries was with him. Even if the
bankers of the world had ultimately forced an un-
righteous peace upon the belligerents President Wil-
son would have kept his prestige and the moral
leadership of the people, and he would have gone
down in history as one of the noblest champions of
humanity. As it was, he made compromise with his
own soul. He lost his health, he lost popular favour,
and he lost his self-confidence. No one can tell how
many centuries his failure set back the progress of
the world ; but only those blinded by hate can doubt
the nobility of his aims.

He did not live to see the victory of his cause, but
he thought and wrote things that no head of a country
before him had thought and written. The humblest
and the mightiest of the earth listened to his words,
which seemed to announce in golden accents a fairer
morality among nations. The better day which he
prophesied will come because it must come. Great

io6 MIDSTREAM

ideals do not attain the summit of our vision in a
day. Great ideals must be tempered to human under-
standing, as the wind to the shorn lamb.

Kipling tells an ancient legend which seems to me
to apply to President Wilson. A man who wrought
a most notable deed wished to explain to his tribe
what he had done. As soon as he began to speak,
however, he was smitten with dumbness, and sat
down. Then there arose a man who had taken no
part in the action, and who had no special virtues,
but who was gifted with the magic of words. He
described the merits of the notable deed in such a
fashion that the words became alive, and walked up
and down in the hearts of all his hearers. Thereupon
the tribe, seeing that the words were certainly alive,
and fearing lest the man with the words would hand
down untrue tales about them to their children, took
and killed him. But later they saw that the magic was
in the words, not in the man. Future generations will
discover that the power of President Wilson was in
his words, not in him.

Chapter VIII

MY OLDEST FRIEND

I DO not remember whether I lectured before or
after the Inauguration, but I do remember that I
was introduced by Dr. Alexander Graham Bell. It
was a very happy occasion. This was not the first
time I had appeared on the platform with him.
When I was a little girl, just learning to talk, my
teacher and I used to go with him to conventions to
further the teaching of speech to the deaf.

Someone has said that a beautiful memory is the
most precious wealth one can possess. I am indeed
rich in happy memories of Dr. Bell. Most people
know him as the inventor of the telephone ; those who
are familiar with his work for the deaf, believe that
what he did for them was as important as his great
invention. I admired him for both, but I remember
him not so much as a great inventor or as a great
benefactor, but as an affectionate and understanding
friend.

I could almost call him my oldest friend. Even

before my teacher came he held out a warm hand to

me in the dark; indeed, it was through him that Mr.

Anagnos sent her to me, but little did he dream, or

107

io8 MIDSTREAM

I, that he was to be the medium of God's best gift
to me.

From the beginning he enthusiastically approved
Miss Sullivan's methods in teaching me. In a letter
to Mr. Macy shortly after The Story of My Life
was published he says of some letters of hers which
are printed there in which she tells how she taught
me:

They reveal the fact that has long been suspected, that Helen's
remarkable achievements are as much due to the genius of her
teacher, as to her own brilliant mind. . . . They also prove that
Miss Sullivan vi^as vrrong vrhen she gave us the impression that
she acted without method in the instruction of Helen — groping her
way along and acting only on the spur of the moment. They show
that she was guided all along by principles of the greatest impor-
tance in the education of the deaf — that she did have a method,
and the results have shown that her method was a true one.

In a letter to Mrs. Macy about the same time, he
says :

They are of the greatest value and importance. These letters
. . . will become a standard, the principles that guided you in the
early education of Helen are of the greatest importance to all
teachers.

Dr. Bell's interest in the deaf did not begin with
his own life. The science of speech had long been
studied in the Bell family. Dr. Bell's grandfather
was the inventor of a device to overcome stammering,

MY OLDEST FRIEND 109

and his father, Mr. Melville Bell, whom I used
often to see when I visited the Bells in Washington,
perfected a system of visible speech as a means of
teaching the deaf which Dr. Bell considered more
important than his invention of the telephone,
though, as Mr. Melville Bell is reported to have
said, "There was not so much money in it." To learn
speech by means of it demands more patience than
our western countries have, but it has been found
serviceable in the Orient, and his classification of
speech sounds is the basis of the pronunciation sys-
tem in the Oxford Dictionary which has just been
completed.

The devotion of Dr. Bell to his father was
beautiful. How like they were, and how different!
Melville Bell was the more reposeful and domestic.
His tastes were simple, and did not change when
wealth came to his son. He continued to live in the
same little house in the same contented and frugal
manner. His breakfast, though he had been many
years away from Scotland, still consisted of oatmeal
porridge, which he ate in Scotch fashion, dipping
the spoon of hot porridge into the bowl of cold milk.

If anything kept Dr. Bell from visiting his father
for a day or two, he would say, "Come, I must see
my father. A chat with him is just the tonic I need."

In Professor Bell's charming little cottage at
Colonial Beach at the point where the Potomac

no MIDSTREAM

meets the sea I used often to see these two noble men
sitting on the porch for hours without speaking a
word, smoking peacefully and watching the steamers
and boats pass along the river on their errands of
service. Sometimes an unusual bird note would attract
their attention, and the son would ask, ^'How would
you record that, father?" Then the resources of the
visible speech system would be tested out, and the
two men would become absorbed in phonetics, un-
mindful of everything about them. Every note was
analyzed and visibly recorded. Occasionally a twitter
presented difficulties which took hours to solve.

Both men had an intense desire to remedy every
defect of enunciation, and I have been told that it
was a joy to listen to their speech. My teacher often
spoke of it, and Mr. Watson, Dr. Bell's assistant in
the invention of the telephone, says, in his book,
Exploring Life, "His clear, crisp articulation de-
lighted me, and made other men's speech seem un-
couth." Both had at various periods been teachers of
elocution, and both loved to recite.

Dr. Bell was exceedingly tender to his mother,
who was quite deaf when I knew her. I recall a
spring afternoon when Dr. Bell took Miss Sullivan
and me for a drive in the country. We gathered
quantities of honeysuckle, pink and white dogwood,
and wild azaleas. On our way back we stopped to
give them to Mrs. Melville Bell. Dr. Bell said, "Let

MY OLDEST FRIEND iii

us go in by the porch door and surprise them." On
the steps he paused and spelled into my hand, "Hush!
They are both asleep." We tiptoed about, arrang-
ing the flowers. It was a picture never to be forgotten
— those two dear people seated in armchairs, Mrs.
Bell's white head bowed on her breast, Mr. Bell's
head thrown back on the chair, his beard and curly
hair framing his ruddy face like a statue of Zeus.
We left them undisturbed with the flowers and their
dreams.

I was always glad to visit Dr. Bell's family in
Washington or at their summer home in Cape
Breton. I admired Mrs. Bell for the courage and
perseverance with which she conquered her handi-
cap of deafness. She was a wonderful lip reader, and
certainly she needed patience, skill, and humour to
read the lips of the countless visitors who came to
the house. She never spelled on her fingers because
she believed that this system of communication iso-
lated the deaf from normal people. She loved
beautiful lace and used to hold a filmy web in her
hands and show me how to trace the woven flowers
and leaves, the saucy Cupids, the silken winding
streams, and the lacy criss-cross of fairy paths bor-
dered with aerial boughs. The two small daughters,
Elsie and Daisy, were always ready to play with me,
and Daisy tried to put all the bright things she heard
into my hand so I could laugh with her.

112

MIDSTREAM

There were often distinguished gatherings when
I was introduced to learned scientists — Professor
Langley, Professor Newcomb, Major Powell, and
others. Dr. Bell used to spell what they said to me.
He always assumed that anyone could understand
anything. He would explain to me the laws of
physics or some principle of magnetism; but no
matter how abstruse his discourse might be, or how
little of it I understood, I loved to listen to him.

He was one of those exceptional mortals who can
never be in a room two minutes before the whole
talk converges in their direction. People chose to
listen to him instead of talking. He had an extraordi-
nary gift of presenting difficult problems in a simple
and vivid manner, a gift which, in my experience, is
one of the rarest possessed by human beings. Profes-
sor Langley did not have it in the slightest degree.

Dr. Bell was never dogmatic in his conversation.
He was, I think, the only person I ever knew who
could look at a subject from a point of view entirely
different from his own with genuine interest and
enthusiasm. When it was presented to him he would
say, "Perhaps you are right. Let us see."

His gifts as an orator are not known to the public
in general because he chose to exercise them in behalf
of an obscure group, living in silence, in whom the
public interest is not what it should be. But I know
what eloquent speech is. I have stood beside Dr. Bell

MY OLDEST FRIEND 113

on the platform and felt speech coming from his lips,
and eloquence in his voice, his attitude, his gestures
all at once. Never have I longed more intensely for
natural speech as on these occasions. After he had
talked awhile he would touch my arm, I would rise
and place my hand on his lips to show the audience
how I could read what he was saying. I wish words
could portray him as I saw him in those exalted
moods — the majesty of his presence, the noble and
spirited poise and action of his head, the strong fea-
tures partly masked by a beautiful beard that rippled
and curled beneath my fingers, the inspired expres-
sion which came into his face when he was deeply
moved. His splendid head is lifted, his nostrils dilate,
and his gestures are large, harmonious movements
of the body, like his thoughts. No one can resist so
much energy, such power.

All his life Dr. Bell earnestly advocated the oral
method of instruction for the deaf. Eloquently he
pointed out the folly of developing a deaf variety of
the human race, and showed the economic, moral,
and social advantages that would result from teach-
ing them in the public schools with normal children.
He regarded the sign system as a barrier to the
acquisition of language and insistently urged its
abolition. He deplored the segregation and inter-
marriage of deaf mutes, and felt that so long as their
only way of communication was through signs and

114 MIDSTREAM

the manual alphabet, they would be isolated from
society and very few of them would ever rise to the
position of the average intelligent man or woman.

Yet the manual alphabet and the sign system have
zealous defenders. They are both easier to acquire,
but the ultimate results are not comparable to those
of the oral system by means of which the pupil is
taught to read the lips and answer in his own voice.
In my case there was no choice : my additional handi-
cap of blindness made the use of the manual alphabet
essential. Later I learned to read the lips, but I think
my education would have been greatly retarded if I
had begun with the lip reading in the first place.

Every teacher of the deaf, no matter what system
he advocates, has been influenced by Dr. Bell. He
broadcast his ideas in the truest scientific spirit, with
no ambitious aim. For a number of years he main-
tained at his own expense an experimental school in
Washington where practical work could be carried
on in finding better ways of teaching very young deaf
children. He helped Dr. Fay, of Gallaudet College,
collect statistics concerning the deaf, and it was at
his suggestion that the American Association for
Promoting the Teaching of Speech to the Deaf was
organized in 1890. He contributed twenty-five
thousand dollars towards its work and was tireless
in devoting his energy to placing its cause before the
public. With the money which was given him as the

MY OLDEST FRIEND 115

Volta prize for his invention of the telephone he
established the Volta bureau in Washington for the
dissemination of information regarding the deaf. He
strove unceasingly to make it possible for every child
without hearing to acquire speech.

You who see and hear may not realize that the
teaching of speech to the deaf is one of the divinest
miracles of the Nineteenth Century. Perhaps it is
impossible for one who sees and hears to realize what
it means to be both deaf and dumb. Ours is not the
stillness which soothes the weary senses; it is an in-
human silence which severs and estranges. It is a
silence not to be broken by a word of greeting, or
the song of birds, or the sigh of a breeze. It is a
silence which isolates cruelly, completely. Two hun-
dred years ago there was not a ray of hope for us. In
an indifferent world not one voice was lifted in our
behalf. Yet hearing is the deepest, most humanizing,
philosophical sense man possesses and lonely ones all
over the world, because of Dr. Bell's efforts, have
been brought into the pleasant social ways of man-
kind.

Dr. Bell was a young son of an old country, a self-
reliant Scot, but so long did he live among us he
seems our own. His life was singularly free from
harassments both of temperament and circumstances.
No allowance was ever needed for the eccentricity or
waywardness of genius. His nature was too fine to

ii6 MIDSTREAM

breed rivalries or tolerate animosities. I have never
met anyone v^ho knew Dr. Bell personally who did
not feel that he had made a lasting impression upon
his or her life; indeed, his nature was so rich in
sympathy that it is difficult to speak of him in terms
which will not seem exaggerated.
/'^ "Life is extraordinarily interesting!" he used to
say, especially when we spoke of the telephone.
"Things happen, but they are not the things we
thought would happen. We can see clearly enough
to the turn of the road, but beyond that we do not
know what surprises may be in store for us." He told
us how Mrs. Bell, who was not at that time his wife
but his pupil, persuaded him to go to the Centennial
Exposition in Philadelphia to exhibit the telephone.
The time was set for a Sunday afternoon, but when
the hour arrived, it was hot, the judges were tired,
and it looked as if there would be no demonstration.
"But" — Dr. Bell would smile his refulgent smile —
"but the unexpected may happen at Philadelphia as
anywhere else. It happened just as I had made up my
mind to leave the Exposition. At that moment Dom
Pedro, the Emperor of Brazil, appeared, and recog-
nizing me as the man he had talked to in Boston
about methods of teaching the deaf (he was inter-
ested in establishing schools for the deaf in Brazil
and was investigating the various methods of teach-
ing them in the United States), he came towards me,

MY OLDEST FRIEND 117

holding out his hand. Observing my apparatus, he
asked me what it was. I told him about it, and that I
had expected to give an exhibition of it that after-
noon. 'Well, why not!' the Emperor exclaimed, 'I
should like to hear it.' " A wire was strung across the
room. Dr. Bell took the transmitter and told Dom
Pedro to hold the receiver close to his ear. "My God,
it talks!" he cried. Then Lord Kelvin took the re-
ceiver. "Yes, it speaks," he said. The judges took
turns in listening, and the exhibition lasted until ten
o'clock that night. The instrument was the centre of
interest during the remainder of the Exposition. The
commercial development of the telephone dated from
that day.

It was in 1892 when the invention was being con-
tested in the courts of Boston that I first became
aware of the telephone. We saw a great deal of Dr.
Bell in those days. We were staying at Chelsea with a
friend of ours, Mrs. Pratt, who had assisted him in
some of his investigations relating to the deaf. When
the session at court was over he would come for us
or we would go to the Bellevue Hotel and wait for
him. It was a strenuous time for him, and we felt it
incumbent upon us to get him to relax as much as
possible. He was very fond of the theatre and of
music, and it was never difficult to persuade him to
take us to a play or a concert.

We took many drives in and around Boston, which

ii8 MIDSTREAM

is one of the most delightfully situated of cities, in
the heart of a beautiful, accessible country. Often we
went to the shore, and if we could find an old sailor
to take us out in his boat, Dr. Bell was the happiest
man alive.

Naturally, our talk turned frequently to scientific
matters. In his youth. Dr. Bell was profoundly in-
terested in the laying of the Atlantic cable. He told
me vividly how it was laid after many failures and
discouragements, and how many lives were lost
before it was finally completed, in 1866. I was twelve
years old, and that story of heroism and the wonder
of the human imagination, as told by Dr. Bell,
thrilled me as a fairy tale thrills other children. I
still have an impression of words fluttering along
wires far, far down under the ocean, East and West,
annihilating time.

It was Dr. Bell who first spelled into my hand the
name Charles Darwin. "What did he do?" I asked.
"He wrought the miracle of the Nineteenth Cen-
tury," replied Dr. Bell.

Then he told me about The Origin of Species, and
how it had widened the horizon of human vision
and understanding. That achievement also became
an integral part of my mental equipment.

He showed us the building where the telephone
was born and spoke appreciatively of his assistant,
Mr. Thomas A. Watson, without whom, he said, he

MY OLDEST FRIEND 119

doubted if the invention would ever have been car-
ried through. It v^as on March 10, 1876, that Mr.
Watson, v^ho wsls v^orking in another room, w^as
startled to hear Dr. Bell's voice say, "Mr. Watson,
come here, I w^ant you." That was the first audible
telephone talk. It was as casual and commonplace as
any of the millions of conversations that go on every
day over the telephone. I said I wished the first
sentence transmitted had had more significance. Dr.
Bell answered, "Helen, time has shown that the
chief use of the telephone is the repetition of that
original message. The transmission of the words,
'Come here, I want you,' to the millions of work-
aday Watsons is the highest service the telephone
renders a busy world."

"Had you been hopeful of the success of the instru-
ment before that day?" I asked.

"Oh, yes," said Dr. Bell, "There had been words
spoken prior to that message. Nevertheless, I was
filled with astonishment when I learned that Mr.
Watson had heard my voice."

Dr. Bell had no telephone in his own study, and
he used to say somewhat ruefully, "What should be
done to the man who has destroyed the privacy of
the home?" And I have heard him say, when people
spoke admiringly of the invention, "Yes, but I doubt
if it will ever carry human speech as far as Shake-
speare and Homer have carried it."

MIDSTREAM

One evening when we were waiting for a street
car beside a telephone pole, Dr. Bell placed my hand
on the weather-smoothed wood and said, "Feel. What
do the vibrations mean to you — anything?" I had
never put my hand on a pole before.

"Does it hum like that all the time?"

"Yes, all night. That even singing never stops; for
it is singing the story of life, and life never stops."
He then described how the wires were strung and
insulated, and explained many other details that I
suppose everyone except a blind girl would know
about, and he said, "Those copper wires up there are
carrying the news of birth and death, war and finance,
failure and success from station to station around the
world. Listen! I fancy I hear laughter, tears, love's
vows broken and mended."

This reminds me of another time when we were
walking in the rain and he asked me if I had ever
felt a tree when it was raining. He put my hand on
the trunk of a small oak, and I was astonished to feel
a delicate murmur — a silvery whisper, as if the leaves
were telling each other a lot of little things. I have
often touched trees since when raindrops were de-
scending in little pearly columns from every twig
and leaf. They feel like elves laughing.

On these walks and drives Dr. BelPs mind spread
out restfully. Snatches of poetry, anecdotes, reminis-
cences of Scotland, descriptions of Japan, which

MY OLDEST FRIEND

121

he had visited some years earlier, flowed through
his skillful fingers into my hand. He loved Portia's
speech on the quality of mercy, and he once told me
that his favourite quotation was Dryden's paraphrase
of Horace:

Happy the man, and happy he alone,
He, who can call to-day his own;
He who, secure within, can say,
To-morrow, do thy worst, for I have lived to-day;
Be fair or foul or rain or shine.
The joys I have possessed, in spite of Fate, are mine

Not heaven itself upon the past has power.
But what has been, has been, and I have had my hour.

The period of litigation lasted a number of years —
eight, I believe. The case was finally decided in Dr.
BelFs favour by the Supreme Court of the United
States. When Dr. Bell died it was estimated that
there were twelve million telephones in use in the
world, and it has been said that the basic patent which
he received on his twenty-ninth birthday was the most
valuable patent ever issued.

I saw Dr. Bell soon after the New York to San
Francisco telephone line was opened. Telephone
lines had by that time connected nearly all parts of
the country. Mr. Watson was in San Francisco and
Dr. Bell was in New York. The same sentence was
repeated :

"Mr. Watson, come here, I want you."

MIDSTREAM

''He heard me," said Dr. Bell, ''but he did not
come immediately. It is not long now, however, be-
fore men will be able to appear from across the con-
tinent within a few hours after they are summoned."
He said that the transatlantic flight would some
time be made in one day. I thought of him when
Lindbergh flew across in thirty-three and a half
hours.

Of course Dr. Bell experienced the annoyance as
well as the happiness of having done something that
his fellow creatures appreciated. Wherever he went
he was approached by people who wished to shake
hands with the man who made the telephone. Once
he spelled to me, "One would think I had never done
anything worth while but the telephone. That is be-
cause it is a money-making invention. It is a pity
so many people make money the criterion of success.
I wish my experiments had resulted in enabling the
deaf to speak with less difficulty. That would have
made me truly happy."

Dr. Bell was interested in many other inventions
besides the telephone — the gramophone, the photo-
phone, and an induction balance. He invented a tele-
phone probe which was used to locate the bullet that
killed President Garfield.

When he wished to work on one of his theories or
inventions he would retire to Beinn Breagh, Cape
Breton, or to his retreat near Washington, or to a

MY OLDEST FRIEND 123

cocoanut grove in Florida — the home of his daughter,
Mrs. Fairchild. ''I must have perfect quiet," he
v^ould say, ''but that is no easy thing to secure in this
busy world." Once he remarked, "The telephone is
the man Friday's footprint on the sands of life.
Wherever we go, it reminds us that no man can live
wholly alone."

When our paths lay in different courses I used to
write to him now and then. Knowing how absorbed
he was in his work I never expected an answer, but
I never wrote without receiving one. I did not ex-
pect him to read my books, but he always did, and
wrote to me about them in such a way that I knew
he considered me a capable human being and not
some sort of pitiable human ghost groping its way
through the world.

'Tou must not," he wrote after he had read The
W orld I Live /w/'put me among those who think that
nothing you have to say about affairs of the universe
would be interesting. I must confess I should like to
know what you think of the tariff, the conservation
of our natural resources, or the conflicts which re-
volve about the name of Dreyfus. I would also like
to know how you would propose to reform the edu-
cational system of the world. I want to see you come
out of yourself and write of the great things outside.
The glimpse you give us into your own world is so
fascinating and interesting that I would like to hear

124 MIDSTREAM

what you have to say of things outside." He after-
wards greeted my Song of the Stone Wall with de-
light because ''it is another achievement demonstrat-
ing that you are not exiled from our world of beauty
and music." Is it any wonder that I loved him?

It was a part of his joyous nature that he loved
to give and receive surprises. I remember a letter I
had one morning shortly before my teacher was mar-
ried. On the outside was written "A Secret for Helen
Keller" and under that, "I don't want Miss Sullivan
or Mr. Macy to read this note. Let someone else
read it to Helen." I took the letter to Lenore, who
was staying with us at the time, and she read me that
Dr. Bell had sent a check for me to get my teacher a
wedding present. "The trouble is," he said, "I don't
know what would please her and I want someone
to help me. Why not you? I enclose a check payable
to your order and would be very much pleased if
you could spend the money for me on a wedding
present for Miss Sullivan and not tell her anything
about it until you give her the present for me."

We went off to Boston that very day and ex-
amined the beautiful things gathered into the shops
from all over the world. Finally we selected a clock
which struck the hours with a soft chime. I had not
spent all the money. So we went back the next day,
and I chose a silver coffee urn. Dr. Bell was much
amused when I wrote him about the two gifts. He

MY OLDEST FRIEND 125

said he could see that I had some of the "canny Scot"
in me.

It is strange what things crowd into the mind as
one writes about a beloved friend. Little incidents
that I have not thought of in years come back to me
now as if they had been written on the pages of my
mind in secret ink. I remember that first visit of ours
to Washington on our way to the Perkins Institution,
after my teacher had been with me a year, but curi-
ously enough it is not so much Dr. Bell who stands
out in my mind as it is President Cleveland. I was a
demonstrative, affectionate child, and my first
thought was to kiss the President. Not understanding
my intentions, or perhaps understanding them only
too well, he pushed me away. I am ashamed to con-
fess that I was never able to see much good in Cleve-
land's administration after that.

Dr. Bell was very fond of animals and we used
to go to visit the "zoo" together, not only in Wash-
ington but in other cities where we were attending
meetings for the advancement of the deaf. Once when
I was a little girl — I think it was on my fourteenth
birthday — he gave me a cockatoo which I called
Jonquil because of his glorious yellow crest. Jon-
quil was a beauty, but he was a menace armoured
in lovely white and gold feathers. He used to perch
on my foot as I read, rocking back and forth as I
turned the pages. Every now and then he would hop

126 MIDSTREAM

to my shoulder and rub his head against my ear and
face, sometimes putting his long, sharp, hooked bill
in my mouth, sending ripples of terror down my
spine. Then he would dart off, screeching fiendishly,
to alight on the back of a dog or the head of a per-
son. After a while my father tried to give him away,
but his fame had spread so far that no one would
take him. Finally, the owner of a saloon in Tus-
cumbia gave him shelter. I don't know what hap-
pened to him after the passage of the eighteenth
amendment.

Dr. Bell was always eager for adventure — night or
day, no matter what the weather was like. "Hoy,
Ahoy!" was his call for his friends and associates,
and one they were always delighted to answer.

I remember an evening in Pittsburgh when we
drove along the embankment of the river to see the
spectacular display of fireworks when the furnaces
made their periodic runs. I shall never forget how
excited Dr. Bell was when the show began. We were
chatting about the enormous industries which make
Pittsburgh one of the great cities of the world when
Dr. Bell jumped up exclaiming, "The river is on
fire!" Indeed, the whole world appeared to be on
fire. Out of the big, red, gaping mouths of the fur-
naces leaped immense streams of flame which
seemed to fan the very clouds into billows of fire.
Around the huge shaft-necks of the furnaces they

MY OLDEST FRIEND 127

flung rosy arms. As the columns ascended, the stars
blushed as if a god had kissed them. The shoulder
of the moon turned pink as she threw a scarlet scarf
over her head. More and more curtains of scarlet,
crimson, and red gold unroll, cloud mixes with cloud,
fold tangles in fold, until the sky is an undulating
sea of flame. Miss Sullivan and Dr. Bell spell into
my hands, again and again erasing their words,
searching their memories for phrases and similes to
describe the scene. "A cataract of pink steam!" one
would say, "it bubbles and drips through the air."
"There goes a crimson geyser licking up the night!"
said the other. "A molten rod of hot iron ducks into
a black hole like a rabbit." "There are silvery
grottoes and caves of ebony and abysses of blackness
beyond the river bank." "The belching furnace must
be part of the central fires of earth." Every few
seconds there was a flare of fiery cinders resembling
"Greek Fire." Between the red flames and the black
wall of the furnace moved the shadowy forms of
men, the slaves of the insatiable beast which roared
into darkness and spread flamingo wings upon the
night.

When my teacher and I visited the Bells at their
Beinn Breagh home near Baddeck the summer after
my first year at Radcliffe Dr. Bell's leading scientific
interest was aeronautics. He had built a huge tetra-
hedral kite with which he hoped to establish some

128 MIDSTREAM

new principles in the art of flying. The kite never
achieved the success he thought it would ; but we had
no end of fun with it. He appointed me his chief
adviser, and would never loose a kite until I had
examined the cables and imparted the information
that they could stand the strain. Once, while I was
holding the cable, someone released the kite from
its moorings, and I was nearly carried out to sea
hanging to it. Dr. Bell insisted that I should wear a
helmet and a waterproof bathing suit, just as he
did, so that we might be ready for any emergency.
"You can never know what perverse idea a kite may
get into its head," he would spell to me seriously.
"We must always be ready to outwit it." Once in a
while he would pause to report, "We are getting on
swimmingly." This was not infrequently true; for a
recalcitrant breeze would catch us, and we would
find ourselves swimming, not in the air, but in the
"Bras d'Or." I do not think I ever saw Dr. Bell dis-
couraged. He was always ready to jest about his ex-
perimental misfortunes.

It was about this time that Professor Langley
visited Beinn Breagh. Our talk was chiefly about
aviation. My teacher and I would accompany them
in an observation boat, and hour after hour either
Miss Sullivan or Dr. Bell spelled to me what they
were talking about. I was interested because they
were though I did not understand much of what

MY OLDEST FRIEND 129

they discussed. They were terribly scientific and
mathematical. But I have had occasion to observe
that men v^ho are doing important things like to talk
about their problems to a sympathetic listener even
though he is quite ignorant of the subject.

One of the playthings at Beinn Breagh was an old
houseboat, permanently anchored on a strip of shore
about a mile from Dr. Bell's house. It had one foot
in the "Bras d'Or," on the starboard side, and on
the lee side it looked into a fresh pond. There were
some beds and plenty of blankets in the cabin, and
food was kept in the locker, so that anyone who
wished to could sleep there.

One time there were a number of guests staying
at the house, and from their talk one might have
thought they were holding a scientific congress. Miss
Sullivan, Daisy, Elsie, and I decided to spend the
night on the boat. It was a gloriously clear summer
evening, and we were as eager for adventure as young
dogs for the chase. We started early, hurrying down
the path that led along the shore to the boat, so that
we could eat our supper on deck at sunset while the
"Bras d'Or" lay in golden splendour. What an ex-
perience it was to be part of such an enchanting
scene with two beautiful girls, who thoroughly en-
joyed the fun. Daisy kept spelling to me the ex-
quisite tints of sky and water until it was dark, and a
proiouiid silence descended upon us — a silence only

I30 MIDSTREAM

broken by the lapping of the waves, which gave a
tongue to solitude.

When the moon rose, trembling with excitement,
we got down into the lake by means of a rope ladder.
There we were, we four alone with ourselves and
perfection of water and moonlight! The air was
quite cold ; but the water was deliciously warm, and
our joy knew no bounds. Then what a scramble
we had up the ladder to see who could get to her
blankets first! We were up at dawn. As we came
out on the deck a storm of gulls burst from the
island, veering and wheeling above the lake, in whose
golden arms day, like a mermaid, was combing out
the bright strands of her hair. At that hour there were
great flocks of gulls shaking the sleep out of their
wings before diving into the water for their breakfast.
It was a magnificent picture — worth lying awake to
see, and we had slept lightly, so as not to miss any-
thing. Many years have passed since, but that happy
night in the old houseboat is as bright in my re-
membrance as the stars which filled the sky.

Another time when we were at the houseboat. Dr.
Bell and Professor Newcomb, the astronomer, came
down and sat with us on deck. It was one of those
magical evenings of the north when the moon weaves
a bright chain of light across the waters, and the
''queen of propitious stars" appears amid falling
dew. The bosom of the lake rose and fell softly, like

MY OLDEST FRIEND 131

the breast of a sleeping infant, and the winds wan-
dered to us with fragrant sighs from mountain and
meadow. All the world seemed to be left to the
stars and to us.

It was one of the evenings that smile upon fancy,
friendship, and science, and high hopes. Professor
Newcomb talked about eclipses and comets, the
Leonidas meteor showers which I believe occur only
once in a century, and astronomical calculations,
while Dr. Bell interpreted all he said to me. Once he
paused and said, "Helen, do you know that when a
star is shattered in the heavens, its light travels a
million years or so before it reaches our earth?" I
had never had the sense of being utterly lost in the
vastitudes of the universe which I experienced that
night as I listened to the mysteries of sidereal
phenomena. I thought of Blanco White's lines,

Who could have thought that such darkness lay concealed
Within thy beams, O sun? Or who could find
That while leaf and fly and insect stood revealed,
To such countless orbs thou madest us blind ?

It has ever been thus with me — that the wonder-
fulness of life and creation grows with each day I
live.

The last evening of my visit at Beinn Breagh,
Dr. Bell and I were together on the piazza, while
Mrs. Bell was showing some pictures of Cape Bre-

i3i MIDSTREAM

ton to Miss Sullivan in the library. Dr. Bell was in
a dreamy mood, and spelled his thoughts into my
hand, half poetry, half philosophy. He was weary
after a long day of experiments ; but his mind would
not rest, or rather, it found sweet rest in the poets
he had read as a young man. He recited favourite
passages from "In Memoriam," 'The Tempest,"
and "Julius Caesar," and I remember with what
earnestness he repeated, "There is a tide in the
affairs of men," and ended by saying, "Helen, I do
not know if, as those lines teach, we are masters of
our fate. I doubt it. The more I look at the world, the
more it puzzles me. We are forever moving towards
the unexpected."

"When I was a young man," he continued, "I loved
music passionately, and I wanted to become a musi-
cian. But fate willed otherwise. Ill health brought
me to America. Then I became absorbed in experi-
ments with an instrument that developed into the
telephone, and now here I am giving my days and
nights to aeronautics. And all the time you know
that my chief interest is the education of the deaf.
No, Helen, I have not been master of my fate— not
in the sense of choosing my work." He paused and
went on, "Your limitations have placed you before
the world in an unusual way. You have learned to
speak, and I believe you are meant to break down
the barriers which separate the deaf from mankind.

Miss Keller, Miss Sullivan and Dr. Bell, Nova Scotia, igoi.

MY OLDEST FRIEND 133

There are unique tasks waiting for you, an unique
woman."

I told him my teacher and I intended to live in
some retreat ^'from public haunt exempt" when I
graduated from college, and then I hoped to write.

"It is not you, but circumstances, that will de-
termine your work," he said. ''We are only instru-
ments of the powers that control the universe. Re^
member, Helen, do not confine yourself to any par-
ticular kind of self-expression. Write, speak, study,
do whatever you possibly can. The more you accom-
plish, the more you will help the deaf everywhere."

After a long pause he said, "It seems to me, Helen,
a day must come when love, which is more than
friendship, will knock at the door of your heart and
demand to be let in."

"What made you think of that?" I asked.

"Oh, I often think of your future. To me you are a
sweet, desirable young girl, and it is natural to think
about love and happiness when we are young."

"I do think of love sometimes," I admitted; "but
it is like a beautiful flower which I may not touch,
but whose fragrance makes the garden a place of de-
light just the same."

He sat silent for a minute or two, thought-
troubled, I fancied. Then his dear fingers touched
my hand again like a tender breath, and he said, "Do
not think that because you cannot see or hear, you

134 MIDSTREAM

are debarred from the supreme happiness of woman.
Heredity is not involved in your case, as it is in so
many others."

"Oh, but I am happy, very happy!" I told him.
"I have my teacher and my mother and you, and
all kinds of interesting things to do. I really don't
care a bit about being married."

"I know," he answered, ''but life does strange
things to us. You may not always have your mother,
and in the nature of things Miss Sullivan will marry,
and there may be a barren stretch in your life when
you will be very lonely."

"I can't imagine a man wanting to marry me," I
said. "I should think it would seem like marrying a
statue."

"You are very young," he replied, patting my
hand tenderly, "and it's natural that you shouldn't
take what I have said seriously now : but I have long
wanted to tell you how I felt about your marrying,
should you ever wish to. If a good man should de-
sire to make you his wife, don't let anyone persuade
you to forego that happiness because of your peculiar
handicap."

I was glad when Mrs. Bell and Miss Sullivan
joined us, and the talk became less personal.

Years later Dr. Bell referred to that conversation.
Miss Sullivan and I had gone to Washington to tell

MY OLDEST FRIEND 135

him of her intention to marry John Macy. He said
playfully, ''I told you, Helen, she would marry. Are
you going to take my advice now and build your
own nest?"

"No," I answered, "I feel less inclined than ever
to embark upon the great adventure. I have fully
made up my mind that a man and a woman must be
equally equipped to weather successfully the vicis-
situdes of life. It would be a severe handicap to any
man to saddle upon him the dead weight of my
infirmities. I know I have nothing to give a man
that would make up for such an unnatural burden."
And I repeated Elizabeth Barrett Browning's son-
net:

What can I give thee back, O liberal
And princely giver, who has brought the gold
And purple of thine heart, unstained, untold,
And laid them on the outside of the wall
For such as I to take or leave withal,
In unexpected largess? Am I cold.
Ungrateful, that for these most manifold
High gifts, I render nothing back at all?
Not so ; not cold — but very poor instead.

"You will change you mind some day, young
woman, if the right man comes a-wooing." And I
almost did — but that is another story.

The last time I saw Dr. Bell he had just returned

136 MIDSTREAM

from a visit to Edinburgh. For the first time he
seemed melancholy. This was in, I think, 1920. He
said he had found himself a stranger in a strange
land, and that it seemed good to get back to America.
The War had left its cruel scar upon his spirit. I felt
the lines of sorrow graven upon his noble features;
but I thought a smile had fallen asleep in them. He
told us he was going to work on hydroplanes the re-
mainder of his life. He prophesied that in less than
ten years there would be an air service between New
York and London. He said there would be hangars
on the tops of tall buildings, and people would use
their own planes as they do automobiles now. He
thought freight could be carried by air cheaper than
by rail or steamships. He also predicted that the
next war would be fought in the air, and that sub-
marines would be more important than battleships
or cruisers.

Dr. Bell also foresaw a day when methods would
be discovered by engineers to cool off the tropics
and bring the heated air into cold lands which need
it. He told me that beneath the warm surface of the
tropic seas flow currents of icy cold water from the
Arctic and Antarctic regions, and he said that in
some way these streams would be brought up to the
surface, thus changing the climate of hot countries
and rendering them pleasanter to live and work in.
His wonderful prophecies set my heart beating fas-

MY OLDEST FRIEND 137

ter; but little did I dream that in six years I should
read of French engineers laying plans to capture
the ocean as an ally against climates inimical to
man!

We felt very sad when we said good-bye to him.
I had a presentiment that I should not see him again
in this life.

He died at his summer home on August 3, 1922,
He was buried at sunset on the crest of Cape Beinn
Breagh Mountain, a spot chosen by himself. Once
he had pointed out that spot to me, and quoted
Browning's verse:

''Here is the place, Helen, where I shall sleep
the last sleep" —

Where meteors shoot, clouds form,
Lightnings are loosened,
Stars come and go !

Sunset was chosen as the time for burial because
at that moment the sun enfolds the lakes in its arms
of gold, which is what the name "Bras d'Or" means.

If there were no life beyond this earth-life, some
people I have known would gain immortality by the
nobility of our memory of them. With every friend
I love who has been taken into the brown bosom of
the earth a part of me has been buried there; but
their contribution of happiness, strength, and under-

138 MIDSTREAM

Standing to my being remains to sustain me in an
altered world. Although life has never seemed the
same since we read in the paper that Alexander
Graham Bell was dead, yet the mist of tears is re-
splendent with the part of himself that lives on in me.

Chapter IX

I CAPITULATE

After the lecture in Washington at which Dr. Bell
introduced me I spoke in a few other places, includ-
ing Richmond, Virginia, before I returned to Wrent-
ham. My teacher and I were tired and discouraged,
and very uncertain about the future.

Our financial difficulties increased. At the time of
my teacher's marriage, Mr. Rogers had cut his an- ^ i^oS,
nuity in half. I had thought that I would be able to
make enough with my pen to supply the deficiency,
but there were too many interruptions and I was an-
noyed at having always to write about myself. The
editors of the magazines said, "Do not meddle with
those matters not related to your personal experi-
ence." I found myself utterly confined to one sub-
ject — myself, and it was not long before I had ex-
hausted it.

Financial difficulties have seemed nearly always
an integral part of our lives, and from time to time
many people have tried to help us extricate our-
selves from them. I do not know just when Mr.
Carnegie began to take an interest in my affairs, but
late in 1910, when he learned through our friend^

13?

I40 MIDSTREAM

Lucy Derby Fuller, of our difficulties, he came to
my aid with characteristic promptness and gen-
erosity. A few days after she talked with him he
wrote her that he had arranged an annuity for me.

It had been done without my knowledge or con-
sent, and I declined as gracefully as I could. I was
young and proud, and still felt that I could suc-
ceed alone. Mr. Carnegie suggested that I give
the matter further consideration, and assured me that
the annuity was mine whenever I wanted it. "Mrs.
Carnegie and I gladly go on probation," he said. So
the matter rested for about two years.

In the spring of 1913, when my teacher and I
were in New York, we called on the Carnegies at
their invitation. I shall never forget how kind they
were. They made me feel that they wanted to help
me. Mrs. Carnegie was very sweet, and I liked Mr.
Carnegie. Their daughter, Margaret, a lovely
young girl of sixteen, came into the library while we
were talking. "Margaret is the philanthropist here,"
Mr. Carnegie said, as she put her hand in mine. "She
is the good fairy that whispers in my ear that I must
make somebody happy."

Over a cup of tea wc conversed on many subjects.
Mr. Carnegie asked me if I still refused his annuity.
I said, "Yes, I haven't been beaten yet." He said he
understood my attitude and sympathized with it.
But he called my attention to the fact that fate had

I CAPITULATE 141

added my burden to that of those who were living
with me, and that I must think of them as well as of
myself. It had weighed heavily upon my heart, but
no one with great power of giving had ever re-
minded me that I was responsible for the welfare of
those I loved. He told me again that the annuity was
mine whenever I would take it, and asked me if it
was true that I had become a Socialist.

When I admitted that it was true he found many
disparaging things to say about Socialists, and even
threatened to take me across his knees and spank me
if I did not come to my senses.

"But a great man like you should be consistent," I
urged. "You believe in the brotherhood of man, in
peace among nations, in education for everybody.
All those are Socialist beliefs." I promised to send
him my book. Out of the Dark, in which I tell how I
became a Socialist.

He asked me what I lectured about. I said hap-
piness. "A good subject," was his comment. "There's
plenty of happiness in the world, if people would
only look for it." He then asked me how much the
people who engaged me sold the tickets for. I told
him a dollar and a dollar and a half. "Too much,
far too much," he said, "you would make more money
if you charged fifty cents — not more than seventy-
five cents as a limit."

Mr. Carnegie asked why I didn't write more. I

142 MIDSTREAM

told him I did not find writing easy, that I was very-
slow, and there were few subjects editors thought
me capable of writing about. He said he didn't think
writing was easy for anyone, except in rare moments
of inspiration. "Labour must go into anything that's
worth while. Burns is said to have dashed off 'A
man's a man for a' that' in a jiffy, but I don't be-
lieve it. Anyhow, years of thinking on injustice pre-
ceded the miracle. I tell you, Burns's life is in that
poem."

He showed us a portrait of Gladstone, whom he
admired tremendously. "You know, the great English
statesman was a Scot." I said I did not know it. Mr.
Carnegie seemed surprised that I knew so little about
Gladstone. I said he was the sort of a man that bored
me, and that I couldn't be enthusiastic about him,
even when he acted nobly. "Perhaps his being a
Scot has something to do with your admiration," I
remarked. "May be," he said. "Blood is thicker than
water, and it's much thicker in Scotland than any-
where else. I tell thee, Scoffer, he was one of the
greatest men of our age. He was seventy when I
saw him, and Milton's lines came into my mind :

"With grave Aspect he rose, and in his rising seemed
A pillar of state ; deep on his front engraven
Deliberation sat, and public care;
And princely counsel in his face yet shone,
Majestic, though in ruin,"

I CAPITULATE 143
Mr. Carnegie was also a great admirer of Queen
Victoria. I told him that if he had said to her all
the flattering things he was saying about her, she
would have given him two garters — Disraeli's and
her own. He gave a very animated description of a
birthday party at Windsor when Victoria was
seventy-something. The Queen was presented with a
silver ornament encrusted with birds and flowers. I
cannot remember whether it was Mr. Carnegie's gift,
or not. Anyway, Her Majesty surprised everyone at
the table by rising and thanking her friends very
charmingly.

Mr. Carnegie was fond of Gray's "Elegy," and
told me he had visited Gray's tomb. He quoted the
inscription on the grave of the poet's mother :

Dorothy Gray,
the careful, tender mother of many children, one of
whom alone had the misfortune to survive her.

He asked me if I knew the words that Carlyle had
graven on his wife's tomb. I did not; but I read them
from Mr. Carnegie's lips, "And he feels that the
light of his life has gone out." Mr. Carnegie was a
walking anthology of verse. He constantly quoted
Browning, Shakespeare, Burns, Wordsworth, and
Walter Scott. One of his favourite quotations, and
one which he recited with fine feeling, was Portia's
speech beginning "The Quality of mercy is not

144 MIDSTREAM

Strained." These lines were often on Dr. Bell's lips
also.

Mr. Carnegie was quite an actor, too. With fire in
his eye he would declaim,

Know this, the man who injured Warwick
Never passed uninjured yet.

On one occasion — I think it was the first afternoon
I was with him — he led me around his library and
study, and shoWed me the innumerable jewel boxes
containing the thanks of towns and cities which had
accepted his gift of a library. He called my atten-
tion to the exquisite workmanship of these boxes ; one
of them, I remember, had his name set in jewels. A
letter he was especially proud of was from King
Edward, expressing appreciation of something Mr.
Carnegie had given, I cannot recall what it was.

He told me about walking through southern Eng-
land when he was a boy with a knapsack on his back.
He enjoyed the trip so much that he promised him-
self that if his ship ever came in he would drive
a party of his friends from Brighton to Inverness.
The idea took possession of him. It became his castle
in Spain, and in the eighties he was able to attain it.

He said his idea of wealth when he was a young
man was fifteen hundred dollars a year — enough to
live on and keep his parents comfortable in their old
age. "But fate gave me thousands more than that.

I CAPITULATE 145

The fickle goddess does that sometimes, and laughs
in her sleeve."

I said, "Fate has been very good to you, Mr. Car-
negie, in that your dream came true when you were
young and full of the joy of life."

"That's it," he replied eagerly, "I'm the happiest
mortal alive, only sometimes I can't believe it's
true. You see, I never thought in my wildest flights
of fancy that the dream would assume the princely
proportions it has."

He said, "I spend a good deal of time in the gar-
den. Out there I feel as if 'the air had blossomed into
joy.' Can you tell me who said that?"

"It sounds like Shelley," I said.

"Wrong!" he triumphed. "It was Robert Inger-
soll. He said when he saw the American flag in a
foreign land, 'I felt the air had blossomed into joy.'
Who told the southern Confederacy, 'There is not
air enough upon the American continent to float two
flags?' "

"Ingersoll," I shot back, without having the faint-
est idea who said it. Mr. Carnegie patted me saying,
"You've got a head on your shoulders, I see."

Mr. Andrew Carnegie was an optimist. I thought
I was one dyed-in-the-wool until I met him. "A pes-
simist has a poisoned tongue," he declared. "I would
banish every one of them to Siberia if I had the
power. Good cheer is worth money,"

146 MIDSTREAM

^'Not very much," I teased him. 'Tou told me
my lecture on happiness was worth only fifty cents."

Some callers happened in while we were there.
He introduced me to one gentleman as "one of the
twelve men I have made millionaries," and then
added, "Life is much more interesting and worth
while since I left money-making to these fellows. I
wouldn't have had any time for you in the old days,
Helen. I have changed my views about many things
since I have had time to think."

After our call on the Carnegies my teacher and
I continued our lectures. Mrs. Macy was far from
well. She was still convalescing from a major opera-
tion which she had undergone in the autumn. But we
hoped we could keep things going by our own efforts,
especially if I could write a few articles during the
summer.

We both appreciated Mr. Carnegie's desire to
assist me, and still more the insight and sympathy
with which he understood our motives in declining
his offer. Mrs. Carnegie was as tender as he, and I
remember a letter which I had from her in De-
cember after our visit in which she says that she
hopes I will let them prove their friendship for me.

The first of April brought me face to face with
the necessity of surrender. We were in Maine filling
a lecture engagement. When we reached Bath, the
weather turned suddenly cold. The next morning my

1 CAPITULATE 147

teacher awoke very ill. We were alone in a strange
place. My helplessness terrified me. With the as-
sistance of the manager of the hotel we got on the
train and went home. A week later I wrote Mr.
Carnegie telling him what had happened, and con-
fessing my folly in not letting him assist me. The re-
turn mail brought a warm-hearted letter from him,
enclosing a check which I was to get semi-annually.
I will quote part of it here :

The fates are kind to us indeed — I thought that text of mine
would reach your brain and penetrate your heart. "There are a
few great souls who can rise to the height of allowing others
to do for them what they would like to do for others." And so
you have risen. I am happy indeed — one likes to have his words
of wisdom appreciated. Remember Mrs. Carnegie and I are the
two to be thankful, for it is beyond question more blessed to give
than receive.

I cannot pretend that it was not humiliating to
surrender, even to such a kind and gracious friend.
Like Jude, I can say, "It was my poverty and not my
will that consented to be beaten."

For some time the lack of money had been only a
small part of our worry. Mr. Macy was considering
leaving us. He had wearied of the struggle. He had
many reasons for wishing to go. I can write about
that tense period of suffering only in large terms.
There is nothing more difficult, I think, than to re-
construct situations which have moved us deeply.

148 MIDSTREAM
Time invariably disintegrates the substance of most
experiences and reduces them to intellectual abstrac-
tions. Many of the poignant details elude any attempt
to restate them. It is not merely the difficulty of
recapturing emotions, it is almost equally difficult
to define attitudes, or to describe their effects upon
others. They are, as it were, in solution, or if they
do crystallize, they appear different to the persons
concerned. It seems to me, it is impossible to an-
alyze honestly the subtle motives of those who have
influenced our lives, because we cannot complete the
creative process with the freshness of the situation
clinging to it. Analysis is as destructive of emotion as
of the flower which the botanist pulls to pieces. As I
recall the Wrentham years, they appear to my im-
agination surrounded by an aura of feeling. Words,
incidents, acts, stir in my memory, awakening com-
plicated emotions, and many strings vibrate with joy
and pain. I shall not try to resolve those experiences
into their elements.

Chapter X

n ' I-

ON ''the open road"

During the autumn of 191 3 we were for the first
time constantly on the road. It was pleasant to find
myself generally known, and people glad to come to
hear me, but it was hard to accustom myself to the
strangeness of public life. At home I had always been
where I could breathe the woodland air. My life had
been as it were "between the budding and the fall-
ing leaf," and I had felt along my veins the thrill of
vine and blossom. Winter and spring had brought me
wind-blown messages across marsh, brook, and stone-
walled field. I had felt

God's great freedom all around,
And free life's song the only sound.

All such peaceful, expansive sensations cannot be
enjoyed in the throbbing whirl of a train, the rattle
of lurching taxis, or the confinement of hotels and
lecture halls.

I have never been able to accustom myself to hotel
life. The conventional atmosphere wearies me, and
there is no garden where I can run out alone and
sense the wings of glorious days passing by. At such

149

150 MIDSTREAM

times I am painfully aware of the lack of personal
liberty which, next to idleness, is the hardest part of
being blind.

When one sees and hears, one can watch the
pageant of life from the city building or the rushing
train. The features and colours of one landscape
blend with those of another, so that there is a con-
tinuity of things visible and audible. A succession of
faces, voices, noises, changes in the sky, carry on the
story of life, and lessen the effect of loneliness and
fatigue. But when I go from one place to another, I
leave suddenly the surroundings that have become
familiar to me through touch and daily association
and I cannot readily orientate myself in a strange
locality. I am conscious of the same kind of remote-
ness one senses out at sea, far from all signs of land ;
and on my first tours this feeling was quite oppres-
sive. I missed the charm of the roads I had walked
over — the ripples of the earth and billows of grass
underfoot, the paths trod by men and horses and the
ruts made by wheels, the dust from automobiles and
other tangible signs of life. But after a while I
learned to enjoy the rhythmic vibration of the train
as it sped over long distances. In the swift, steady
motion my body found rest, and my mind kept pace
with the stretch of the horizon and the ever shifting
clouds. I could not tell which interested me most, the
excitement of departure from a city, or the rush over

ON "THE OPEN ROAD" 151

great plains and undulating country, or the arrival at
the next lecture with hope of accomplishment in my
heart. Everyone seemed eager to show us attention,
and all along the road we were shown appreciation
in ways which touched and pleased us, but we could
not take part in the social functions that were ar-
ranged for us or even meet many of the people who
called. It would have been too great a tax upon
human strength.

Social functions have always been trying for me.
I confess I never feel quite at ease at them. I know
that nearly everybody has heard of me, and that
people want to see me, just as we all want to see
places and persons and objects we have heard a
great deal about. I have been meeting and talking
to strangers ever since I was eight years old, but even
now I can seldom think of anything to say. The diffi-
culty of presenting people to me through the medium
of hand-spelling sometimes causes me embarrass-
ment and confusion. But I feel certain that theSe
functions must have a useful purpose which I can-
not understand. Otherwise we should not tolerate the
absurdity of shaking hands with hundreds of curi-
ous human creatures whom we have never seen,
and will in all probability never see again.

I do not know a more disturbing sensation than
that of being ceremoniously ushered into the pres-
ence of a company of strangers who are also celeb-

152 MIDSTREAM
rities, especially if you have physical limitations
which make you dififerent. As a rule, when I am in-
troduced to such people, they are excessively con-
scious of my limitations. When they try to talk to me,
and find that their words have to be spelled into my
hand, their tongues cleave to the roofs of their
mouths and they become speechless. And I am quite
as uncomfortable as they are. I know that I should
have clever things to say which would tide over the
embarrassing moment, but I cannot remember the
bright casual remarks with which I intended to grace
the occasion.

After several of these mortifying occasions, I de-
cided to commit to memory every sprightly repartee
I could find. But alas! my proud intentions were
frustrated by the perversity of my memory. The bril-
liant remarks I thought of were never suited to the
occasion. I realized that to be of any use my bon mots
would have to be mentally card catalogued, and even
if I went to this trouble, I wondered if I could get
the right one quickly enough. No, there certainly
would be horrible blank intervals when people
would stare and wait for an answer that could not be
found! I decided to cultivate the art of silence, a
subterfuge by which the dull may achieve the
semblance of wisdom.

Even now where people are gathered, I say little,

ON "THE OPEN ROAD*' 153

beyond explaining patiently that I am not Annette
Kellerman, that I do not play the piano, and have
not learned to sing. I assure them that I know day is
not night and that it is no more necessary to have
raised letters on the keys of my typewriter than for
them to have the keys of their pianos lettered. I have
become quite expert in simulating interest in ab-
surdities that are told me about other blind people:
Putting on my Job-like expression, I tell them blind
people are like other people in the dark, that fire
burns them, and cold chills them, and they like food
when they are hungry, and drink when they are
thirsty, that some of them like one lump of sugar
in their tea, and others more.

We were always amused at the newspaper accounts
of our appearance in a place. I was hailed as a
princess and a prima donna and a priestess of light.
I learned for the first time that I was born blind,
deaf, and dumb, that I had educated myself, that I
could distinguish colours, hear telephone messages,
predict when it was going to rain, that I was never
sad, never discouraged, never pessimistic, that I ap-
plied myself with celestial energy to being happy,
that I could do anything that anybody with all his
faculties could do. They said this was miraculous —
and no wonder. We supplied the particulars when
we were asked for them ; but we never knew what
became of the facts.

154 MIDSTREAM

Our travels were a queer jumble of dull and ex-
citing days.

I recall an amusing ride we had in the state of
Washington on a sort of interurban car, which we
called the "Galloping Goose" on account of its
peculiar motion. It resembled a goose in other ways,
too. It stopped when there was no reason for stop-
ping; but we did not mind, as it was a lovely day in
spring, and we got out and picked flowers by the
side of the track.

Another time, when we were criss-crossing north-
ern New York, it was necessary for us, in order to
fill our engagement, to take an early morning train
that collected milk. It was a pleasant experience. We
literally stopped at every barn on the way. The milk
was always waiting for us in tall, bright cans, and
cheerful young farmers called out greetings to the
trainmen. The morning was beautiful. It was a joy
to have the country described to me. The spring
foliage was exquisite, and I could picture the cows
standing knee-deep in the luscious young grass which
I could smell. They said the apple trees in bloom
were a vision of loveliness.

Once we happened to be on the last train going
through the flooded districts of Texas and Louisiana.
I could feel the water beating against the coaches,
and every now and then there was a jolt when we hit
a floating log or a dead cow or horse. We caught an

ON "THE OPEN ROAD" 155

uprooted tree on the iron nose of our locomotive and
carried it for quite a distance, which reminded me
of the lines is "Macbeth" :

Macbeth shall never vanquish'd be, until
Great Birnam wood to high Dunsinane hill
Shall come against him.

and I wondered if it was a good or a bad omen. It
must have been a good one; for we arrived at our
destination many hours late, but safe and very thank-
ful.

Whenever it was at all possible, I visited a school
for the blind or the deaf in the city where I was
speaking; but our schedule was strenuous to begin
with^ and I was not equal to such additional effort.
Several times I was treated most discourteously be-
cause I did not rush out of the hotel, just after arriv-
ing, and shake hands with a whole school. In one
city, at a time when I could scarcely speak because of
a cold, the superintendent of the school for the blind
asked me to visit his institution and was exceedingly
hurt when both my teacher and my mother told him
I was not able. It grieved me that I could not always
make these visits, not only because of the disappoint-
ment of those who invited me, but also because I was
greatly interested in what was being done for the
blind and deaf all over the country.

Frequently when I am speaking in a city, I re-

156 MIDSTREAM

ceive letters from invalids who tell me they have
read my books, and wish to see me, but are unable to
come to my lecture because they are shut in — or shut
out from the normal activities of life. Whenever it
is at all possible, I go to see them before or after
the lecture. Their brave patience stirs the depths of
my soul, and I bow my head in shame when I think
how often I forget my own blessings and grow im-
patient with thwarting circumstances. I carry away
with me sharp emotional pictures of thin, tremulous
hands and suffering deeply graven in delicate linea-
ments, the cruel refinements of the sick room, of
gentle pride in dainty things made in the intervals of
anguish — bead necklaces, crocheted lace, paper
flowers, sketches, and kewpie dolls, happy exclama-
tions mingled with moans of pain, the smell of medi-
cines and dreadful pauses of adjustment when the
attendant tries to make some part of the maimed
body more comfortable.

New ideas kept crowding into my mind, and my
attitude changed as different aspects of civilization
were presented to me. I had once believed that we
were all masters of our fate — that we could mould
our lives into any form we pleased. I was sure that
if we wished strongly enough for anything, we
could not fail to win it. I had overcome deafness
and blindness sufficiently to be happy, and I sup-
posed that anyone could come out victorious if he

ON *'THE OPEN ROAD" 157

threw himself valiantly into life's struggle. But as
I went more and more about the country I learned
that I had spoken with assurance on a subject I knew
little about. I forgot that I owed my success partly
to the advantages of my birth and environment, and
largely to the helpfulness of others. I forgot that
whatever character I possessed was developed in an
atmosphere suitable to it. I was like the princess who
lived in a palace all composed of mirrors, and who
beheld only the reflection of her own beauty. So I
saw only the reflection of my good fortune. Now,
however, I learned that the power to rise in the
world is not within the reach of everyone, and that
opportunity comes with education, family connec-
tions, and the influence of friends. I began to realize
that although in fifty years man had acquired more
tools than he had made during the thousands of years
that had gone before he had lost sight of his own
happiness and personal development. It was terrible
to realize that the very forces which were meant to
lift him above hopeless drudgery were taking posses-
sion of him.

This realization came most poignantly when we
visited mining and manufacturing towns where
people were working in an unwholesome atmosphere
to create comfort and beauty in which they could
never have a part. I learned that to be a worker,
poor and undefended, is

158 MIDSTREAM

To suffer woes which hope thinks infinite;
To forgive wrongs darker than death or night;
To defy power, which seems omnipotent ;
To love and bear; to hope till hope creates
From its own wreck the thing it contemplates.

But as time went on my thoughtless optimism was
transmuted into that deeper faith which weighs the
ugly facts of the world, yet hopes for better things
and keeps on working for them even in the face of
defeat.

It was in January, 1914, that we started on our
first tour across the continent, and my mother accom-
panied us, which was a great happiness to me. She
had always wanted to travel, and now I could make
it possible for her to see our wonderful country from
coast to coast! The first place we spoke in was
Ottawa, Canada. From there we went to Toronto
and London, Ontario, where we were received with
the beautiful courtesy and friendliness characteristic
of the Canadian people. Then we crossed the border
into Michigan. We spoke in Minnesota and Iowa and
in other parts of the Middle West and we had many
amusing, exciting, and exasperating experiences.

When we left Salt Lake City, it was bitter cold.
We wore fur coats, fur-lined gloves, and overshoes,
and still felt the cold keenly. In the middle of the
night our train jumped the track, and our car got
stuck fast in the roadbed. The violence of the motion

ON "THE OPEN ROAD*' 159

nearly threw us out of our berths. We were obliged
to dress as quickly as we could in the darkness and
change to an immigrant car with straw seats. We did
not get to sleep again.

About daylight we dropped into Riverside, the
heat became oppressive, and I began to catch whiffs
of ravishing fragrance. My mother and my teacher
spelled into my hands as the train sped past orange
and eucalyptus groves, through the soft sage-scented
brown hills, with snow-capped mountains in the dis-
tance. We raced through the misty maze of pepper
trees and the blue, gold, and scarlet of millions of
flowers until we came at last to Los Angeles.

No sooner had we stepped out on the platform
than we were greeted by a great gathering of friends,
reporters, and photographers.

We had looked forward to this arrival and wanted
to make a pleasant impression, but, weighted down
with our furs and desperately in need of rest, we
knew that we could not do it. We tried to escape
to the hotel and remove the stains of travel, but our
friends assured us that they had special cars waiting
for us.

All the ladies present were daintily dressed in
summer gowns with flowers on their hats and gay
sunshades over their heads. We were so embarrassed
by our appearance that we declined the special auto-
mobiles, jumped into a taxi, and told the driver to

i6o MIDSTREAM

take us as fast as he could to the Alexandria Hotel.
But as we turned the corner, something went wrong
with the car, and he had to stop for a few minutes
until it was fixed. Instantly reporters sprang upon
the running board and demanded an interview, and
the photographers caught up with us and pointed
their cameras at us! Every effort was made to delay
us, but we insisted on going on to our hotel. Our
friends' feelings were hurt, the newspaper people
were indignant, our manager was in a rage. Our
rooms were full of exquisite flowers, beautiful fruits,
and everything to add to our comfort and pleasure ;
but we were too exasperated and weary to enjoy
them. Indeed, it was several days before we could
feel like human beings, and not like wild creatures
in a gilded cage.

My mother used to say that the years she travelled
with us were the happiest, as well as the most
arduous, she had ever known. She said she lived a
lifetime in her first trip with us across the continent.
Going to California was an experience she had never
dared hope for. Her greatest delight was crossing
and recrossing San Francisco Bay, especially at
night. She described to me the splendour of the sky
and the encircling hills. She amused herself by feed-
ing the gulls which followed the ferry boat and
sometimes alighted on the rail. Her poet's soul
sparkled in her words when she told me how the

ON "THE OPEN ROAD" i6i

sun sent its shafts through the Golden Gate as it
journeyed westward, and how Mt. Tamalpais stood,
silent and majestic, keeping eternal vigil with the
sky, the ocean, and mortality. My mother simply
worshipped the redwoods — ''nature's monarchs,"
she called them, and she declared that they were
more impressive even than the mountains, "because
human faculties can compass them. They are earth's
noblest aristocrats." This was a bond between them.
For she had the Adams pride in family, which had
been greatly augmented by Southern traditions.

We went often to the Muir woods on that first
trip, and I have visited them many times since. How
shall I describe my sensations upon entering that
Temple of the Lord! Every time I touch the red-
woods I feel as if the unrest and strife of earth are
lulled. I cease to long and grieve — I am in the midst
of a Sabbath of repose, resting from human futilities.
I am in a holy place, quiet as a heart full of prayer.
God seems to walk invisible through the long, dim
aisles.

I never met Mr. William Kent, the noble gentle-
man who bought this grove of mighty redwoods to
save them from destruction, but some years later
when I was lecturing in California in behalf of the
blind I spoke at his home. I had already learned
how he had given the trees to the United States as a
park and how when Roosevelt wished to name the

l62

MIDSTREAM

park Kent's Woods he replied, "I suggest that as a
tribute to our great naturalist, John Muir, the park
be named Muir Woods. I am not unappreciative of
your kindness, and I thank you ; but I have five stal-
wsiTt sons, and if they cannot keep the name of Kent
alive, I am v^illing that it should be forgotten." I
have never ceased to regret that he was not at home
that day.

There is something attractive, individual, mem-
orable, in nearly every city; but their charms, like
those of w^omen, are varied, and appeal to different
temperaments. San Francisco bewitches me. She sits
upon her glorious bay, a queen in many aspects, a
royal child when she plays with the gray-winged
gulls which circle round her like bubbles rising from
the dark water. The God who moulded the Canadian
Rockies was an Old Testament Jehovah — a mighty
God! The God who moulded the hills around San
Francisco had a gentle hand. Their outlines are as
tender as those of a reclining woman.

In the distance is Mt. Tamalpais, like an old
Indian chief asleep in the doorway of his wigwam
at close of day, beneath him the bay and the Golden
Gate opening to the Pacific Ocean. At the left of
the Gate is an old Spanish fort. Yonder is Alcatraz
Island with guns pointing west. When "rosy-fingered
dawn" touches the eyes of the Indian chief, and they
open to behold his beloved, he will see ships sailing

ON "THE OPEN ROAD" 163

through the portals of the Golden Gate to the breast
of their mistress, the Pacific, ''strong as youth, and as
uncontrolled."

Happy memories, like homing birds, flutter round
me as I write — breakfast at the Clifif House, and
huge rocks sprawling in the blue waters, where the
sea lions play all day long, warm sand dunes where
blue and yellow lupins grow, groves of eucalyptus
whose pungent, red-tinted leaves I loved to crush in
my hand. Standing on the Twin Peaks, my mother
said, drawing me close to her, "This is a reparation
for all the sorrow I have ever known." We could see
the city far below, and Market Street stretching
from the Peaks to the Bay, and at the foot of Market
Street the clock tower, and ferry boats leaving every
few minutes, steep Telegraph Hill — more like a
ladder than a street, about which many stories are
told by sailors and searchers for gold, and the Mis-
sion Dolores, founded by Father Junipero Serra,
whom the Golden State honours for his heroism, the
Church of St. Ignatius, whose bells ring at seven
every morning, the great cross on Lone Mountain,
which reminds us to make the most of life, since our
days on earth are few.

Sometimes the city surrounds herself with clouds
or wraps herself in gray vapours, as if to be alone.
Sometimes the Twin Peaks shake off their ghostly
garments and gaze at the starlit sky, while the moon

i64 MIDSTREAM

turns her luminous face in such a way as to make her-
self visible from every side. At sunset the Twin
Peaks wear a many-coloured crown. We have
climbed them at dawn when pillars of light, shaped
like a Japanese fan, throw a bridge of flame between
their summits. Even as we gaze, awe-stilled, they
pull up great mantles of cloud from the sea and cover
their faces. The next moment city, mountains, ocean,
are blotted out — we look into white darkness ! I have
often puzzled my brain to discover the difference
between black and white darkness. To my physical
perception there is no difference, yet the words
"white darkness" bring to my mind an image of
something diaphanous which extinguishes the glare
of day, but is not gloom, like black darkness. It sug-
gests the sweet shadows which white pines cast upon
me when I sit under them.

I usually know what part of the city I am in by
the odours. There are as many smells as there are
philosophies. I have never had time to gather and
classify my olfactory impressions of different cities,
but it would be an interesting subject. I find it quite
natural to think of places by their characteristic
smells.

Fifth Avenue, for example, has a different odour
from any other part of New York or elsewhere. In-
deed, it is a very odorous street. It may sound like a

ON "THE OPEN ROAD" 165

joke to say that it has an aristocratic smell; but it
has, nevertheless. As I walk along its even pave-
ments, I recognize expensive perfumes, powders,
creams, choice flowers, and pleasant exhalations from
the houses. In the residential section I smell delicate
food, silken draperies, and rich tapestries.Sometimes,
when a door opens as I pass, I know what kind of
cosmetics the occupants of the house use. I know if
there is an open fire, if they burn wood or soft coal,
if they roast their coffee, if they use candles, if the
house has been shut up for a long time, if it has been
painted or newly decorated, and if the cleaners are at
work in it. I suggest that if the police really wish to
know where stills and "speakeasies" are located, they
take me with them. It would not be a bad idea for
the United States Government to establish a bureau
of aromatic specialists.

I know when I pass a church and whether it is
Protestant or Catholic. I know when I am in the
Italian quarter of a city by the smells of salami,
garlic, and spaghetti. I know when we are near oil
wells. I used to be able to smell Duluth and St. Louis
miles off by their breweries, and the fumes of the
whiskey stills of Peoria, Illinois, used to wake me up
at night if we passed within smelling distance of it.

In small country towns I smell grocery stores,
rancid butter, potatoes, and onions. The houses often
have a musty, damp aura. I can easily distinguish

i66 MIDSTREAM

Southern towns by the odours of fried chicken, grits,
yams and cornbread, while in Northern towns the
predominating odours are of doughnuts, corn beef
hash, fishballs, and baked beans. I think I could
write a book about the rich, warm, varied aromas of
California; but I shall not start on that subject. It
would take too long.

The first tour was typical of all our subsequent
ones. In the years that followed we journeyed up and
down the immensity of America from the storms
of the Atlantic to the calms of the Pacific, from the
Pine State to the Gulf States, along the banks of
muddy creeks or following the Mississippi until
it seemed to me as if we were tearing our way through
life just like that tameless river. On we went through
desolate morasses and swamps ghostly with mossy
trees, over endless leagues of red clay, past wretched
cabins of whites and negroes, then suddenly the glory
of Southern spring burst upon us with the songs of
mocking birds, the masses of dogwood blossoms and
wild azaleas, and the lonely vastnesses of Texas.
Then back home for a few months' rest, and an-
other long tour from the settled East through Sand-
burg's "stormy, brawny, shouting city," across the
sun-soaked prairies of Nebraska, through the im-
mense gulches of Colorado, up the mountains of
Utah, sparkling in the winter sunshine, across the

ON "THE OPEN ROAD" 167

limitless plains of the Dakotas and past the thousand
sparkling lakes of Minnesota. I lost all sense of
permanence, and even now I never feel really as
if I were living at home. Unconsciously I am always
expecting to be borne again over the vast distances
which so powerfully fascinate me. I am like a young
spruce tree which is transplanted often, and keeps
its root in a ball, so that it can adapt itself to any
new place whither it may be carried.

Those tours are a symbol to me of the ceaseless
travelling of my soul through the uplands of thought.
My body is tethered, it is true, as I follow the dark
trail from city to city and climate to climate ; but the
very act of going satisfies me with the feeling that
my mind and body go together. It is a never-ending
wonder for me how my days lead to

. . . the start of superior journeys,

To see nothing anywhere but what you may reach it and pass it,
To conceive no time however distant, but what you may reach

it and pass it,
To look up and down no road but it stretches
And waits for you, however long but it stretches and waits for

you,

To gather the minds of men out of their brains as you encounter
them, to gather the love out of their hearts,

and

to know the world itself as a road, as many roads to hope, as
roads for travelling souls.

i68 MIDSTREAM

That is why Walt Whitman's 'The Open Road" is
one of my favourite long poems, it holds up to me so
faithfully a mirror of my own inner experience.
However dreary or tiresome I may find some of these
roads, there is ^Ha seduction eternelle du chemin/^ I
look forward to other journeys on a celestial high-
way, where all limitations shall disappear, and my
voice, perfect with immortality, shall ring earth-
jvards with sweet might to bless ; and looking forward
is another mode of happiness.

Chapter XI > '

IN THE WHIRLPOOL

On our second trip across the continent Miss Polly
Thomson, who became my secretary in October,
1914, accompanied us in place of my mother. Her
position was, and has been ever since, nominally that
of secretary, but as the years passed she has taken
upon herself the burden of house management as
well. She has never known the luxury of the usual
secretary's hours or well-defined duties. A new day
for her frequently begins an hour or two after the
previous day ends. She has to account for all our en-
gagements, lightning changes and caprices, our sins,
commissions, and omissions. Yes, Polly Thomson
manages it all. She is our friend, kind and true, full of
good nature, often tired, but always with time to do
something more. Had it not been for her devotion,
adaptability, and willingness to give up evrey indi-
vidual pleasure we should long ago have found it
necessary to withdraw into complete isolation. For
in spite of our income from Mr. Carnegie and the
money we made ourselves our expenses were always
a ravenous wolf devouring our finances.

After the outbreak of the World War it was im-

169

I70 MIDSTREAM

possible for me to enjoy the lecture tours as I had
before. Not a cheerful message could I give without
a sense of tragic contradiction. Not a thought could
I sing in the joy of old days! Even the deepest
slumber could not render me quite unconscious of
the rising v^orld calamity. I used to wake suddenly
from a frightful dream of sweat and blood and
multitudes shot, killed, and crazed, and go to sleep
only to dream of it again. I was often asked why I
did not write something new. How could I write
with the thunder of machine guns and the clamour of
hate-filled armies deafening my soul, and the con-
flagration of cities blinding my thoughts? The world
seemed one vast Gethsemane, and day unto day and
night unto night brought bitter knowledge which
must needs become a part of myself. I was in a state
of spiritual destitution such as I had not before
experienced. Works are the breath and life of happi-
ness, and what works could I show when cry upon cry
of destruction floated to me over sea and land? Noth-
ing was sadder to me during those years of disaster
than the thousands of letters I received from Europe
imploring me for help which I could not give while
my teacher and I were with difficulty working our
way back and forth across the continent to earn our
daily bread. If I did not reply to them it was because
I was utterly helpless.

It was extremely hard for me to keep my faith as I

IN THE WHIRLPOOL 171

read how the mass of patriotic hatred swelled with
ever wider and more barbaric violence. Explanations
without end filled the pages under my scornful
fingers, and they all amounted to the same frightful
admission — the collapse of civilization and the be-
trayal of the most beautiful religion ever preached
upon earth.

I clung to the hope that my country would prove
itself a generous, friendly power amid the welter of
hostility and misery. I believed that President Wilson
possessed the nobility and steadfastness required to
maintain his policy of neutrality and ^'Christian
gentleness." I determined to do and say my utmost
to protest against militarism in the United States.
My teacher and I were both worn out; but we felt
that we must at least try to carry a message of good
will to a stricken world.

Accordingly, during the summer of 1916 we under-
took an anti-preparedness Chautauqua tour. We were
booked for many towns in Nebraska and Kansas and
a few in Michigan. This tour was far from successful.
Most of our audiences were indifferent to the ques-
tion of peace and war. Fortunately, the weather was
unusually cool, and we took advantage of the early
morning hours to motor to the next place where we
had an engagement. It was a restful experience to
ride past hamlets and towns buried in fields of corn
and wheat, or over immense prairies bright with

172 MIDSTREAM

sunflowers which were as large as little trees, with
big, rough leaves and heavy-headed blossoms. When
one saw them at a distance they must have seemed
like yellow necklaces winding in and out the bright
grass of the prairies. I loved the odour of great
harvests which followed us mile after mile through
the stillness. But it was not always sunshine and calm.
I remember terrific storms with metallic peals of
thunder, warm splashes of rain and seas of mud
through which our little Ford carried us trium-
phantly to our destination.

We spoke sometimes in halls or in big, noisy tents
full of country folk, or at a camp on the edge of a
lake. Occasionally our audience evinced genuine
enthusiasm; but I felt more than ever that I was not
fitted to address large crowds on subjects which
called for a quick cross-play of questions, answers,
debate, and repartee.

The attitude of the press was maddening. It seems
to me difficult to imagine anything more fatuous and
stupid than their comments on anything I say touch-
ing public affairs. So long as I confine my activities
to social service and the blind, they compliment me
extravagantly, calling me the "archpriestess of the
sightless," "wonder woman," and ''modern miracle,"
but when it comes to a discussion of a burning social
or political issue, especially if I happen to be, as I

IN THE WHIRLPOOL 173

SO often am, on the unpopular side, the tone changes
completely. They are grieved because they imagine
I am in the hands of unscrupulous persons who take
advantage of my afflictions to make me a mouthpiece
for their own ideas. It has always been natural for
me to speak my mind, and the pent-up feelings which
kept beating against my heart at that time demanded
an outlet. I like frank debate, and I do not object to
harsh criticism so long as I am treated like a human
being with a mind of her own.

The group of which I was a part was doing all it
could to keep America out of the war. At the same
time another group, equally earnest, was doing all it
could to precipitate America into the war. In this
group, the one who at the time seemed most impor-
tant, was ex-President Roosevelt.

I had met President Roosevelt in 1903 during a
visit to my foster father, Mr. Hitz. He sent me a
great basket of flowers and expressed the wish that
I might find it agreeable to call upon him at the
White House. The President was very cordial. He
asked Miss Sullivan many questions about my edu-
cation. Then he turned to me and asked me if there
was any way in which he could talk to me himself.
I told him he could learn the manual alphabet in a
few minutes, and at his request showed him the
letters. He made a few of them with his own hand.

174 MIDSTREAM

"F" bothered him, and he said impatiently, "I'm too
clumsy." Then Miss Sullivan showed him how he
could communicate with me by lip-reading.

He asked me if I thought he should let young
Theodore play football. I was embarrassed because
I could not tell whether he was joking or seriously
asking my opinion. I told him, with straight face,
that at Radcliffe we did not play football, but that I
had heard that learned Harvard professors were
objecting to it because it took so much of the boys'
time away from their studies. Then he asked me if I
had heard of Pliny and when I told him I had he
asked if I had read his letter to Trajan in which he
says that if the Greeks are permitted to keep up their
athletics their minds will be so occupied with them
that they will not be dangerous to Rome. We talked
about Miss Holt's work for the blind in New York
and what I had been doing in Massachusetts and he
urged me to keep on prodding people about their
responsibilities to the blind. "There's nothing better
we can do in the world than to serve a good purpose."

My impression of him then was of an alert man,
poised as if to spring, and besides alertness there was
a kind of eagerness to act first. During those years
preceding America's entrance into the war it seemed
to me, as it has seemed ever since, that he was more
precipitate than wise. It was the speed at which he
moved that gave us the impression that he was ac-

IN THE WHIRLPOOL 175

complishing mighty things. Only in aggressiveness
was he strong.

What the group I represented desired was fair
discussion and open debate. I wanted to have the
whole matter put before the people so they could
decide whether they wanted to go into the conflict
or stay out. As it was, they had no choice in the
matter.

I do not pretend that I know the whole solution of
the world's problems, but I am burdened with a
Puritanical sense of obligation to set the world to
rights. I feel responsible for many enterprises that
are not really my business at all, but many times I
have kept silence on issues that interested me deeply
through the fear that others would be blamed for my
opinions. I have never been willing to believe that
human nature cannot be changed ; but even if it can-
not, I am sure it can be curbed and led into channels
of usefulness. I believe that life, not wealth, is the
aim of existence — life including all its attributes of
love, happiness, and joyful labour. I believe war is
the inevitable fruit of our economic system, but even
if I am wrong I believe that truth can lose nothing
by agitation but may gain all.

I tried to make my audiences see what I saw, but
the people who crowded the great tents were disap-
pointed or indifferent. They had come to hear me talk
about happiness, and perhaps recite "Nearer, My

17^ MIDSTREAM '

God, to Thee, Nearer to Thee," or "My Country,
'Tis of Thee, Sweet Land of Liberty," and they did
not care to have their peace of mind disturbed by
talk about war, especially as the majority of them
believed then that we would not be drawn into the
European maelstrom.

No words can express the frustration of those days.
And, indeed, what are words but "painted fire"
before realities that lift the spirit or cast it down?
No real communication of profound experiences can
ever pass from one to another by words. Only those
who are sensitive to spiritual vibrations can hear in
them the fluttering of the soul, as a disturbed bird
flutters in the depths of a thicket. One's life-story
cannot be told with complete veracity. A true auto-
biography would have to be written in states of mind,
emotions, heartbeats, smiles, and tears, not in months
and years, or physical events. Life is marked off on
the soul-chart by feelings, not by dates. Mere facts
cannot present to the reader an experience of the
heart in all its evanescent hues and fluctuations.

I am now going to dig an episode out of my
memory which has contradictory aspects. For that
reason I would rather keep it locked up in my own
heart. But when one writes an autobiography, one
seems, tacitly at least, to promise the reader that one
will not conceal anything just because it is unpleas-

IN THE WHIRLPOOL 177

ant, and awakens regrets of the past. I would not
have anyone think that I have told in this book only
such things as seemed to me likely to win the appro-
bation of the reader. I want whoever is interested to
know that I am a mere mortal, with a human being's
frailties and inconsistencies.

On the second Chautauqua tour I was accompanied
by Mrs. Macy and a young man who interpreted for
me. Miss Thomson was on a vacation at her home in
Scotland. The young man was very much in earnest,
and eager to have the people get my message. He
returned to Wrentham with us in the autumn of 191 6
after our disappointing and exhausting summer. Our
homecoming was far from happy. Mr. Macy was not
there to greet us. Dear Ian had done everything he
could to make the house attractive and the garden
beautiful with flowers; but there was no cheerfulness
in our hearts, and the flowers seemed to add to the
gloom. I telegraphed my mother to come to Wrent-
ham, and in a few days her presence sweetened our
loneliness.

But we were scarcely settled when Mrs. Macy fell
ill. She had succumbed to fatigue and anxiety. She
developed pleurisy and a tenacious cough, and her
physician advised her to go to Lake Placid for the
winter. That meant that our home would be broken
up. Wc should have to let Ian go, since wc could no
longer afford to keep him. This hurt us more than

178 MIDSTREAM

anything. For we all loved Ian. Mrs. Macy had
taken him from the fields — a Lithuanian peasant who
could not speak three words of English — and trained
him to be a cook and butler and houseman. He was
devoted to us, and we felt when he went that the
heart of the Wrentham place would stop beating.

I could not work, I could not think calmly. For
the first time in my life it seemed folly to be alive.
I had often been asked what I should do if anything
happened to my teacher. I was now asking myself
the same question. I saw more clearly than ever
before how inseparably our lives were bound to-
gether. How lonely and bleak the world would be
without her. What could I do? I could not imagine
myself going on with my work alone. To do anything
in my situation, it was essential to have about me
friends who cared deeply for the things I did. My
experience of the summer had brought home to me
the fact that few people were interested in my aims
and aspirations. Once more I was overwhelmed by a
sense of my isolation.

Such was the background of the adventure I shall
relate. I was sitting alone in my study one evening,
utterly despondent. The young man who was still
acting as my secretary in the absence of Miss Thom-
son, came in and sat down beside me. For a long
time he held my hand in silence, then he began talk-

IN THE WHIRLPOOL 179

ing to me tenderly. I was surprised that he cared so
much about me. There was sweet comfort in his
loving words. I listened all a-tremble. He was full
of plans for my happiness. He said if I would marry
him, he would always be near to help me in the
difficulties of life. He would be there to read to me,
look up material for my books and do as much as he
could of the work my teacher had done for me. ,

His love was a bright sun that shone upon my
helplessness and isolation. The sweetness of being
loved enchanted me, and I yielded to an imperious
longing to be a part of a man's life. For a brief space
I danced in and out of the gates of Heaven, wrapped
up in a web of bright imaginings. Naturally, I
wanted to tell my mother and my teacher about the
wonderful thing that had happened to me; but the
young man said, "Better wait a bit, we must tell them
together. We must try to realize what their feelings
will be. Certainly, they will disapprove at first. Your
mother does not like me, but I shall win her approval
by my devotion to you. Let us keep our love secret a
little while. Your teacher is too ill to be excited just
now, and we must tell her first." I had happy hours
with him. We walked in the autumn splendour of the
woods, and he read to me a great deal. But the secrecy
which circumstances appeared to impose upon us
made me suffer. The thought of not sharing my hap-

i8o MIDSTREAM

piness with my mother and her who had been all
things to me for thirty years seemed abject, and little
by little it destroyed the joy of being loved.

As we parted one night, I told him I had made up
my mind definitely to tell my teacher everything the
next morning. But the next morning Fate took mat-
ters into her own hands and tangled the web, as is
her wont. I was dressing, full of the excitement of
what I was going to communicate to my loved ones,
when my mother entered my room in great distress.
With a shaking hand she demanded, "What have you
been doing with that creature? The papers are full
of a dreadful story about you and him. What does it
mean? Tell me!" I sensed such hostility towards my
lover in her manner and words that in a panic I
pretended not to know what she was talking about.
"Are you engaged to him? Did you apply for a
marriage license?" Terribly frightened, and not
knowing just what had happened, but anxious to
shield my lover, I denied everything. I even lied to
Mrs. Macy, fearing the consequences that would
result from the revelation coming to her in this
shocking way. My mother ordered the young man
out of the house that very day. She would not even
let him speak to me, but he wrote me a note in braille,
telling where he would be, and begging me to keep
him informed. I kept on denying that I knew any-
thing about the story in the papers until Mrs. Macy

IN THE WHIRLPOOL i8i

went to Lake Placid with Miss Thomson, who had
returned from Scotland, and my mother took me
home to Montgomery.

In time she found out how I had deceived her and
everyone else. The memory of her sorrow burns me
to the soul. She begged me not to write Mrs. Macy
anything about it until we knew that she was stronger.
"The shock would kill her, I am sure," she said. It
was months later when my teacher learned the truth.

I cannot account for my behaviour. As I look back
and try to understand, I am completely bewildered.
I seem to have acted exactly opposite to my nature.
It can be explained only in the old way — that love
makes us blind and leaves the mind confused and
deprives it of the use of judgment. I corresponded
with the young man for several months ; but my love-
dream was shattered. It had flowered under an
inauspicious star. The unhappiness I had caused my
dear ones produced a state of mind unfavourable to
the continuance of my relations with the young man.
The love which had come unseen and unexpected
departed with tempest on its wings.

As time went on, the young man and I became
involved in a net of falsehood and misunderstanding.
I am sure that if Mrs. Macy had been there, she
would have understood, and sympathized with us
both. The most cruel sorrows in life are not its losses
and misfortunes, but its frustrations and betrayals.

i82 MIDSTREAM

The brief love will remain in my life, a little
island of joy surrounded by dark waters. I am glad
that I have had the experience of being loved and
desired. The fault was not in the loving, but in the
circumstances. A lovely thing tried to express itself;
but conditions were not right or adequate, and it
never blossomed. Yet the failure, perhaps, only serves
to set off the beauty of the intention. I see it all now
with a heart that has grown sad in growing wiser.

All that winter was a time of anxiety and suffering.
My teacher's health did not improve and she was
very unhappy in the bleak climate of Lake Placid.
Finally, about the beginning of December, she sailed
for Porto Rico, accompanied by Polly Thomson.
She remained there until the following April, and
almost every week brought me a letter with her own
hand in braille, full of delight over the wonderful
climate of Porto Rico. She described "the loveliest
sky in the world," the palms and cocoanuts, tree-like
ferns, lilies, poinsettias, and many beautiful flow-
ers she had never seen before. She declared that if
she got well anywhere, it would be on that enchanted
island. But she did not really recover until the fall
after she returned to Wrentham; she could not lec-
ture again for more than a year.

I had often been urged to write a book about the
blind, and I was eager to do it now, not only because
I thought it might help their cause but because I

IN THE WHIRLPOOL 183

wanted something to take my mind away from war
questions. I might have done it that winter, but I
could not collect material for such a book without my
teacher's help and I could not afford expert assist-
ance. I dwell so much on the inadequacy of my
income, not because I see in it a reason for complaint,
but because many people have criticized my teacher
and me for the things we have left undone. If they
only knew how many of our years have been sacrificed
to practical and impractical ways of earning a living!

In various ways our small fortune had become so
depleted that we were obliged to sell our home in
Wrentham. We had been one with the house, one
with the sweetness of the town. Our joys and affec-
tions had peopled the rooms and many objects had
woven themselves by long companionship into my
daily life there. There was a friendly sense about
the long, handsome oak table where I wrote and
spread out my papers with comfort, the spacious
bookcases, the big study windows where my plants
had welcomed me with blossoms and the sofa where
I had sat by a cheery fire. How many of those fires
had shone upon faces I loved, had warmed hands
whose clasp I shall feel no more, and gladdened
hearts that are now still! The very sorrows we had
endured there had endeared that home all the more
to us.

The house seemed to have a personality^ and to

i84 MIDSTREAM

mourn our going away. Each room spoke to us in
unheard but tender accents. I do not think of a house
merely as wood, stone, and cement, but as a spirit
which shelters or casts out, blesses or condemns. It
was a sweet old farmhouse that had enfolded me, and
which had stored away in its soul the laughter of
children and the singing of birds. It was a home
where rural peace had smiled upon my work. There
I watched the ploughing and harrowing of the
fields, and the sowing of seed, waited for new flowers
and vegetables in the garden. When we left the sun
was shining, and the magic of June was everywhere,
except in our hearts. My feet almost refused to move
as we stepped out of a house where I had thrilled to
the beauty of so many golden seasons! Oh, those
Mays with dainty marsh-marigolds and a sea of
violets, pink and white drifts of apple blossoms!
Oh, the Junes with the riot of ramblers up the walls,
the red clover and white Queen Anne's lace, purple
ironweed, and all about the divine aroma of pine
needles! Oh, the breezes with the coolness of deep
woods and rippling streams! All my tree-friends
were there, too — the slender white pines by my
study, the big, hospitable apple trees, one with a
seat where I had sat wrapped in bright dreams, the
noble elms casting shadows far over the fields and
the spruces nodding to me. Nowhere was there a
suggestion of world wars, falling empires, and bitter

IN THE WHIRLPOOL 185

disillusionment, but a sense of permanence and charm
which I have not experienced so fully since. Thirteen
years we had lived there. It was not a long period
measured by years and much of the time we had
perforce been away, yet it was a lifetime measured
in seasons of the heart.

The one thought which cheered us as we drove
away that sad morning was that the house we had
loved so well would be good to others. It is now a
rest home for the girls working at Jordan Marsh
department store, Boston; but it is so endeared to me
by all intimate joys and sorrows that no matter who
lives in it and no matter where I go I shall always
think of it as home.

Chapter XII

I MAKE BELIEVE I AM AN
ACTRESS

After wandering about the country for a time we
decided to make our home in Forest Hills, a pretty
suburb of New York City. We bought a small, odd-
looking house which has so many peaks and angles
that we call it our Castle on the Marsh. "We" were
Mrs. Macy, Polly Thomson, myself and Sieglinde.

We were glad to be out of the noise and rush and
confusion of public life. We planted trees and vines
in the garden. I had a little study upstairs open to
the four winds of heaven. I began the study of
Italian because I wanted to read Dante and Petrarch
in their own tongue, and we hoped to live quietly
with our books and our dreams. But we had hardly
settled down before we had a letter from Dr. Francis
Trevelyan Miller proposing that a motion picture
be made of the story of my life. The idea pleased me
very much because I thought that through the film
we might show the public in a forceful manner how
I had been saved from a cruel fate, and how the
distracted, war-tortured world we were then living
in could be saved from strife and social injustice —

1 86

I MAKE BELIEVE I AM AN ACTRESS 187
spiritual deafness and blindness. That is why the
picture was called ''Deliverance."

It seems strange to me now that I ever had the
conceit to go the long, long way to Hollywood, re-
view my life on the screen, and expect the public not
to fall asleep over it. I was not an exciting subject
for a motion picture. I was awkward and big, while
most of the actresses I met were graceful and sylph-
like. I could not, like Ariel, ''do my spiriting gently."
I could not glide like a nymph in cloudlike robes. I
had no magic wand to conjure up tears and laugh-
ter. But I enjoyed being in Hollywood, and my only
regret now is that the picture proved a financial loss
to all who were interested in it and that my shadow-
self is still an elephant upon the shoulders of the
producer.

Life in the vicinity of Hollywood is very exciting.
You never know what you may see when you venture
beyond your doorsill. Threading your way between
the geraniums which grow on the curb, and spread
out under your feet like a Persian rug, you behold
a charge of cavalry or an ice wagon overturned in
the middle of a street, or a shack in flames on the
hillside, or an automobile plunging down a clifif.
When everything was new to us, we motored out to
the desert. There was nothing to see but glare and
sand mounds, with here and there a cactus or a
greasewood bush. At a bend in the road someone

i88 MIDSTREAM

exclaimed, "Look! there's an Indian — a real wild
Indian." We got out of the car and reconnoitred.
The Indian seemed to be the only moving object in
the universe. The men in the party approached him
v^ith the idea of asking him to let me touch his
headdress, which was a gorgeous affair of painted
eagle feathers. When we got near enough, we began
to gesticulate to tell him in pantomime what we
wanted. In perfectly good English the Indian said,
"Sure, the lady can feel me as much as she likes."
He was a motion picture actor waiting for his
camera men.

Every morning at sunrise Miss Thomson and I
went for a ride through the dewy stillness. Nothing
refreshed me as did the cool breeze, scented with
sage, thyme, and eucalyptus. Some of the happiest
hours of my life were spent on the trails of Beverly
Hills. I loved Peggy, the horse I rode, and I think
he liked me ; for she seldom lost her temper, although
I know she must have found my riding very clumsy
indeed. I am sure things fell out very much to her
liking one day when a girth broke, and she slipped
the saddle and galloped away into the hills for a
holiday, leaving me in the middle of a strawberry
patch. I should not have minded if the farmer had
not already finished picking all the ripe strawberries.

We set out to make a simple picture with The
Story of My Life as a background. We worked at

I MAKE BELIEVE I AM AN ACTRESS 189

the Brunton studio under the direction of Mr. George
Foster Piatt, who was most patient with me. He
devised a signal system of taps that I could follow
and allowed plenty of time for Polly Thomson to
interpret his direction to me. After general directions
had been spelled into my hand, I was supposed to go
through the action with the help of signal taps. "Tap,
tap, tap" — walk toward the window on your right.
'Tap, tap, tap" — hold up your hands to the sun (a
blaze of heat from the big lamps). "Tap, tap, tap" —
discover the bird's cage; (I had already discovered
the cage five times). "Tap, tap, tap" — express sur-
prise, feel for the bird, express pleasure. "Tap, tap,
tap" — be natural. In my hand impatiently: "There's
nothing to be afraid of; it isn't a lion in the cage —
it's a canary. Repeat."

I was never quite at my ease when I posed. It was
hard to be natural before the camera, and not to see
it at that! I had little skill to throw myself into the
spirit of the scene. There I sat or stood for a picture,
growing hotter and hotter, my hands more and more
moist as the light poured upon me. My embarrassment
caused my brow and nose to shine unartistically.
Instead of putting on a winning smile, I often dis-
charged all life and intelligence from my counten-
ance, and gazed stiffly into vacancy. When I became
too absorbed in a difficult detail, like writing in large
letters spited to the screen, I unconsciously frowned,

igo MIDSTREAM

and I believe that only the good nature of those about
me saved my reputation for amiability. Besides, we
had to go to the studio twice a day, and that meant
"making up" and "unmaking" each time.

At first when I was told what effect they were
trying for in a scene, I used to ask myself how I
should do it if I were alone in my room, or with
friends in a familiar place; but the signal "Be
natural" came emphatically after one of my best
efforts. I learned that thinking was of no use in a
motion picture — at least not my thinking. After a
while, if I caught myself thinking about what I
was doing, I would pull myself up sharp, and con-
centrate on the signals that came to me from the
director.

Of course I could not act in the early scenes. A
child named Florence Roberts, whose stage name now
is Sylvia Dawn, impersonated me as a little girl.
With perfect eyes and ears she acted this part as-
tonishingly well, and besides the affection I felt for
her, I had a certain tenderness for the small me that
she presented so realistically. There was also Ann
Mason, the sweet, laughter-loving, daintily dressed
young girl who was myself in the college scenes of
the picture. I was amused whenever she tried to
shut her eyes so as to look blind, and they would pop
open, so interested was she in the scene. I also loved
the way she dreamed my dreams of beauty, and the

I MAKE BELIEVE I AM AN ACTRESS 191

delightful picture she made side by side with Ulysses
and the Greek divinities I had read about in my
books.

Another difficulty arose when it came to presenting
my friends. I was anxious to have as many of them
as possible appear in the picture, but many of them
had died— Henry Rogers, Mark Twain, Phillips
Brooks, Oliver Wendell Holmes, Edward Everett
Hale — and those who were living, had, like myself,
grown older.

I wrote Dr. Bell, who was then in Nova Scotia.
He sent me a beautiful letter which runs in part as
follows :

Your letter has touched me deeply. It brings back recollec-
tions of the little girl I met in Washington so long ago, and
you are still that little girl to me. I can only say that anything
you want me to do I will do for your sake, but I can't go down
to the States before you go to California, and we will have to
wait until you come back.

You must remember that when I met you first I wasn't
seventy-one years old and didn't have white hair, and you were
only a little girl of seven, so it is obvious that any historical
picture will have to be made with substitutes for both of us.
You will have to find someone with dark hair to impersonate
the Alexander Graham Bell of your childhood, and then per-
haps your appearance with me in a later scene when we both
are as we are now may be interesting by contrast.

It occurred to me it might be attractive to present
my friends in a somewhat symbolic way. In Gibbon's
Autobiography there is a memorable passage in

192 MIDSTREAM

which he speaks of a walk he took under the acacias
outside his study at Lausanne when he had com-
pleted his twenty years' work on The Decline and
Fall. It seemed to me that the acacia walk would
be an effective symbol for my picture. What could be
more appropriate than a berceau of acacias to sug-
gest my life-journey through shadow and silence?
What could be more dramatic than to meet my
friends and have them walk with me in that secluded
path, with glimpses of lake, mountain, and river
beyond? The idea was never carried out. This was a
deep disappointment to me because I had desired to
make my picture a grateful testimony to the gracious
deeds and the understanding sympathy which had
made the story of my life.

But each one of us, and I assure you there was an
army of us, had his own idea of the way the picture
should be made. The substitute for the acacia walk
struck me as most grotesque and ludicrous. It was a
great banquet bristling with formality where all my
friends, both living and dead, were assembled. There
was my dear father who had been on the Heaven side
of the Great River for twenty years. There were Dr.
Hale, Bishop Brooks, Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes,
Dr. Bell, Mrs. William Thaw, Henry Rogers; and
Joseph Jefferson looking much more alive than when
he came down the mountain from his twenty years
sleep.

I MAKE BELIEVE I AM AN ACTRESS 193

I felt as if I had died without knowing it, and
passed on to the other world, and here were my
friends who had gone before coming to greet me.
But when I grasped their hands, they seemed more
substantial than I had imagined spirit-hands would
be. Moreover, they did not resemble the hands of
the friends they were impersonating, and the con-
versation of these resurrected friends did not have
the flavour of the talk to which I had been accus-
tomed. It gave me a little shock every time one of
them interjected a remark into the conversation, and
when Mark Twain made a witty or complimentary
speech, I did not know whether to laugh or cry. The
climax of incongruities came when, after all the
music, banqueting, and talk, the scenario required
that I say words to this effect : "Eighty thousand blind
people are unhappy and unhelped, and in the present
state of society it is impossible to give them the
opportunities they should have. . . . Millions of
human beings live and die without knowing the joy
of living. . . . Let us resolve now and here to build
a saner, kindlier world for everybody."

In another scene I danced for the camera, I poured
tea for the callers and after the last guest was sped,
there came the "tap, tap, tap" from the director:
"Lift up your hands and let them fall, express relief
that the last bore has left." There was a bedroom
scene in which I was directed to show the curious

194 MIDSTREAM

public that I could dress and undress myself alone
and that I closed my eyes when I went to sleep.
Charlie Chaplin proposed to break in and wake the
^'sleeping beauty," and I wish now that we had let
him do it.

Our visits with Charlie Chaplin were among the
most delightful experiences we had in California.
He invited me to his studio to see "A Dog's Life,"
and "Shoulder Arms," and when I said I would come
he seemed as pleased as if I were doing him a favour.
His manner was shy, almost timid, and his lovely
modesty lent a touch of romance to an occasion that
might otherwise have seemed quite ordinary. Before
he reeled ofif the pictures he let me touch his clothes
and shoes and moustache that I might have a clearer
idea of him on the screen. He sat beside me and
asked me again and again if I was really interested —
if I liked him and the little dog in the picture.

This was ten years ago. Twice since then he has
been overpowered by the tragedy of life and the
fleeting show of the world he lives in. When I knew
him in 1918, he was a sincere, thoughtful young man,
deeply interested in his art and his violin. His mind
seemed to me sensitive and fine. Apropos of some-
body's remark about the power of mere words to
amuse and enchant, the Prince of Jesters quoted from
Omar Khayyam:

I MAKE BELIEVE I AM AN ACTRESS 195
We are no other than a moving row
Of magic Shadow-shapes that come and go
Round with the Sun-illumined Lantern held
In Midnight by the Master of the Show.

But I must get back to my own picture. We had
not been long at work before we began to realize that
there was very little drama in the story of my life.
The chorus that surrounded Mr. Piatt suggested
that a mystical unfoldment of my story would be
more interesting than a matter-of-fact narrative.
When he said that it would be impossible to film they
chanted that nothing was impossible to those who
tried.

"Can't you see," they wailed, "that there has been
no romance in Helen Keller's life— no lover, no ad-
ventures of the heart? Let her imagine a lover and
follow him in fancy. The picture will be a dismal
failure without excitement."

One of our experiments in getting excitement was
to introduce a fight in which Knowledge and Igno-
rance contended fiercely for my mind at the entrance
of the Cave of Father Time. The whole company
went out to find a suitable location for the battle, and
a spot that seemed fairly appropriate was chosen
about forty miles away among the hills. It was more
exciting than a real prize fight because one of the
combatants was a woman. Ignorance, a hideous giant,

1196 MlDStREAM

and Knowledge, white and panting, wrestled on the

hillside for the spirit of the infant Helen.

I held my breath when Ignorance hurled Knowl-
edge over the cliff, wondering what insurance we
should pay her if she Was dead. Ignorance, laughing
a bloodthirsty laugh, stretched his mighty limbs on
the hill, while wild surmises ran from tongue to
tongue. After what seemed an eternity, Knowledge's
pale brow appeared above the edge of the rocks. Ap-
parently she was only a little breathless from her
precipitous descent and laborious climb back to the
battlefield. The fight recommenced fiercer than ever.
Finally, Knowledge got Ignorance at a disadvantage,
her floating garments having entangled him and
thrown him to the ground. She held him down until
he gave a pledge of submission. The evil genie then
departed with a madman's glare of hate into the
shadows of the earth, while Knowledge covered the
infant with her mantle of conscious light.

The mystic vapours of this performance distilled
into an overflowing cup of optimism. It was now
clear to the dullest of us that there was no limit to
what might be wrought into the Helen Keller pic-
ture. Why waste time on a historic picture when the
realm of imagination was ours for the taking?

While Dr. Edwin Liebfreed (the man who paid
the bills) raged, everyone else imagined vain things
and set the cameras to work on them. Suggestions

Miss Keller teaching Charlie Chaplin the manual alphabet.

I MAKE BELIEVE I AM AN ACTRESS 197

came thicker than flies in summer, confusing the
director and depriving him of his judgment, raising
such a dust of ideas that it was hard to see anything
clearly. We believed we were to contrive a great
masterpiece. I am sure that the other picture people
must have stood by and marvelled at our tremendous
doings.

It was in connection with one of these symbolic
episodes that we had our most distressing experi-
ence in Hollywood. The scene represented a dream
my teacher had when she was feeling discouraged be-
cause I did not yet understand the meaning of lan-
guage. She fell asleep, and lo! there was Christ
saying, "Suffer ye little children to come unto Me."
She was filled with new courage. To "make" this
picture, we all went out into the arid waste-lands
near Hollywood.

The cars and buses debouched a hundred or more
little children upon the scorched and glaring soli-
tude of a vacant hillside. This very rough spot had
been selected because it resembled Jerusalem. Hur-
riedly and with great trepidation the director tried
to marshal his unhappy little army into position; but
no sooner had they started to climb the hill than they
set up howls of pain. The ground was thick with
sharp burrs. The grown-ups tried to carry the chil-
dren in their arms and on their backs ; but there were
so many of them, and the climb was so steep, it took

198 MIDSTREAM

a long time to get them all up. We worked in the
blazing sun, and the little ones grew very thirsty.
Then it was discovered that the milk for the children
had been forgotten! They cried pitifully, and the
mothers whose fault it was had much to say about
the cruelty of directors. Messengers were dispatched
to town, but we had an hour or more of wretched
discomfort before they returned.

I hope that sometime a director will write a book
about his e^i:periences on location. His opinion of
the members of the human species who sell their
children to producers for three dollars a day would
be enlightening.

Before I went to Hollywood, I used to imagine
that artists must have a peculiarly kind feeling to-
ward the models who embody their creations in films
or in marble or on canvas. This I found to be a
delusion. It appears that, for the most part, the work-
ers in human material despise the portion of man-
kind who help them to realize their ideal. I sup-
pose Mark Twain had this in mind when he said,
^'Let us be thankful for the fools. But for them the
rest of us could not succeed."

, We planned a group of scenes to show how real
the adventures of Ulysses were to me. Since I had
no lover Ulysses could be mine. I remember how
excited and troubled I was over the scene in which
he and his crew were shipwrecked. The "stars" went

I MAKE BELIEVE I AM AN ACTRESS 199

away to Balboa, where the waves are terribly rough
and the coast is full of treacherous rocks. The realism
of the details that were spelled to me made me
tremble— the shattering of the boat against the rocks,
the frantic struggling of the men amid the billows,
the sudden disappearance of those who were sup-
posed to be drowned, the final emergence of Ulysses
and a few strong sailors on the beautiful but baleful
Isle of Circe. There was, I declare, nothing shadowy
about this dangerous acting!

The pilot told me afterwards that I myself was in
danger for a few minutes in what was to me the most
thrilling event connected with the picture — my ride
in an aeroplane. It was only material for more film-
shadows; but to me it was a mighty reality, and I
completely forgot my picture self. At first Mrs.
Macy, my mother, and my brother, who had lately
come out to California for the last part of the pic-
ture, would not hear of my being taken up ; but I
insisted. There was only room for the pilot and me.
Was I afraid? How could fear hold back my spirit,
long accustomed to soar? Up, up, up the machine
bore me until I lost the odours of the flying dust, the
ripening vineyards and the pungent eucalyptus! Up,
up, up, I climbed the aerial mountains until I felt
rain-clouds spilling their pearls upon me. With
lightning speed we shot over the tallest buildings of
Los Angeles and returned to the field after half an

200 MIDSTREAM

hour's race with a high wind. Then the machine went
through a series of amazing dips! I felt in them, as it
were, organ music and the sweep of ocean, winds
from off mountains and illimitable plains. As the
machine rose and fell, my brain throbbed with
ecstatic thoughts that whirled on tiptoe, and I seemed
to sense the Dance of the Gods. I had never had such
a satisfying sense of physical liberty.

Another thrilling day came when we went down to
the shipyards at San Pedro. The idea was to show
that I had caught spiritual vibrations from the un-
rest and suffering of toiling mankind — that I had
felt the gigantic throbs of labour's thousand ham-
mers welding the instruments with which fire, water,
and the winds are yoked to the service of man. At
the shipyards I found myself actually in the midst
of the most tremendous industrial activity. I felt the
rhythmic thunder of the triple hammers in the
forge and the searching flame and the sharp, quick
blows of the men driving in rivets, the vibrations of
huge cranes lifting and lowering burdens.

The men stopped work to watch me. There was
a babel of voices. The bosses shouted, ordering the
men back to their jobs ; but they were too interested
watching a blind woman on the monster crane. We
were told that our visit had cost Uncle Sam thousands
of dollars by slowing up the work for three hours.

I MAKE BELIEVE I AM AN ACTRESS 201

Afterwards we went on board a ship that had
just been finished and was about to be launched, and
I christened it by breaking a bottle of champagne
against the bow. I was too hot and thirsty to be duly
impressed by the solemn ceremony, and, as I hurled
the bottle, I let escape a profound sigh at the waste
of so precious a liquid. At twelve o'clock the men
shared their lunch with me and brought me a glass
of cold water and showed the kindest interest in me.
When finally we got into the automobile and turned
hotelward I could scarcely move or think, so over-
weighted was I with a world of emotions and new
impressions.

But our days of exaltation were followed by days
of discouragement. Pessimists said, 'The picture
will be a hodge-podge. There are too many points of
view in it." What particular point of view any par-
ticular person held it was difficult to find out, and
no wonder, for it shifted with events and with the
coming and going of different personalities.

We could not stifle our yearnings for the bright
vistas of an immaterial sphere. Our thoughts turned
from the heat of the studio to ethereal locations. Mr.
Piatt protested, but when someone suggested that it
was foolish to be making the picture of a mortal
woman when we might as well be depicting a mys-
tical Mother of Sorrows wandering lonely, and griev-

202 MIDSTREAM

ing for the blind, the wounded, and the fallen of
humanity, he was completely overruled. Here was
inspiration and no mistake.

The average person comforts himself with the re-
flection that he did not make human beings, and is
not responsible for their defects. But such a phi-
losophy had no comfort for the "Mother of Sor-
rows." There was no satisfaction in such muddle-
headed serenity.

The day this part of the picture was to be filmed
we found within the gates of our studio a great crowd
of strange creatures — men and women of all races,
colours, ages, and degrees of deformity. As we waited
in line to be disinfected (the influenza was in full
swing, and everyone who entered the studio had to
have his nostrils and throat sprayed) we asked the
uniformed attendants if all that mob had been dis-
infected before us. His answer made us believe we
were reasonably safe, and we hurried on.
* Several men minus one or more arms and legs
were performing acrobatic stunts on the mounds of
earth beside a ditch where water pipes were being
laid. One shard with two sticks for legs and a bent
piece of steel in place of an arm swung himself back
and forth across the ditch on his crutches, much to
the delight of the spectators. A blind man tapped his
way along the walk. Some Chinese squatted on the
hot sand playing fan-tan. An old man with a thick

I MAKE BELIEVE I AM AN ACTRESS 203

white beard and bushy white hair sat on a canvas
stool playing a concertina. Women chattered in a
medley of tongues.

Miss Thomson asked a man who might have "been
Jack-the-giant-killer what picture they were mak-
ing. "Keeler's," he said. "Who's that?" she inquired.
"Ask me something easy," he grinned.

In the studio our people were very busy. Yes, we
were going out on location that day. The "Mother
of Sorrows" would appear to the afflicted of the
world bearing a torch of hope. To our amazement
the crowd through which we had just passed clam-
bered into our location buses, the director, camera
men and principal actors got into waiting automo-
biles, and the procession started. On the way we
learned some of the details of what was going to
happen.

The police had given us permission to use a
notorious alley which had recently been closed. It
was a short, narrow street with two entrances, one
from the main street and the other from a higher
level reached by a long flight of rough steps.

The alley was deserted when we arrived, but when
the buses unloaded their cargo it became a veritable
Bedlam. It was as if invisible hands had emptied a
nondescript Noah's ark there. Dogs, resembling their
human partners, appeared from nowhere. Soon the
booths were filled with merchandise. The pawn shops

204 MIDSTREAM

and second hand clothing shops displayed their wares
from poles outside the door. There were tobacco
stands, shoe repair booths, saloons, and there were
scissors grinders, peddlers, and fruit venders walking
up and down shouting and singing. The noise was
demoniacal, and the smells were nauseating. But
even more irritating than noise and odours was the
mad jostling of the crowd. I had an almost irresist-
ible impulse to strike out — to clutch some support
amid the swaying confusion.

I was relieved when Mr. Piatt's boy, Guy, came
for me. He took me out of the crowd on the main
street, so that the people should not see me before I
made my appearance at the upper entrance to the
alley. The ''Mother of Sorrows" robe was draped
over my head and arms in long, flowing folds of
heavy material. I was given instructions to descend
the steps very slowly, and when I reached the pave-
ment, I was to walk to the middle of the alley and
stand with upraised face and arms. Afterwards I
was told that when I first started down the steps,
nobody noticed me. Then one of the women, lean-
ing out of a window, caught sight of me and
screamed. There was a wild scramble. Every face
was turned towards the steps. As I came on down
the mass seemed to become one body. No directing
was necessary. They behaved as their instincts of
superstition and fear dictated. The swaying, uncer-

I MAKE BELIEVE I AM AN ACTRESS 205

tain motion of my body, due to lack of balance,
seemed to hypnotize them. They sensed something
strange in my bearing and my unseeing eyes. When
my feet touched the pavement, those near me fell
on their knees, and before I reached the middle
of the alley, everyone was kneeling without a signal
from the director! I stood as motionless as a statue
for a few terrifying seconds, not knowing ex-
actly what to do. I sensed the hushed and unnatural
stillness — the palpitating wall of fear that encircled
me. I reached out my hands and touched the bowed
heads of those who were nearest me. The contact
smote my soul, and the tears rolled down my cheeks
and fell upon my hands and the heads they rested
upon. The people around me began to sob aloud, and
draw closer. I felt them touching my robe and my
feet. All the love and pity which until that moment
I had been trying to simulate suddenly rushed over
me like a tide. I thought my heart would burst, so
overcharged was it with longing to lift the weary
load of misery beneath my hands. Scarcely knowing
what I said, I prayed as I had never prayed in my
life before.

"Pity us, O God! Pity our helplessness, our
broken lives and desecrated bodies! Pity our children
who wither like flowers in our hands! Pity all the
maimed and the marred ! We beseech Thee, give us
a sign that Thou seest our blindness and hearest our

2o6 MIDSTREAM

dumbness. Deliver us out of the alleys and gutters of
the world I Deliver us from the poverty that is blind-
ness and the denial that is deafness! With our grop-
ing hands we pray Thee, break the yoke that is
heavy upon us. Come, O come to our hearts choked
with weeds, to our sin-fettered souls, to Thy people
without a refuge! Come to the children whose para-
dise we have betrayed! Come to the hungry whom
no one feeds, to the sick whom no one visits, to the
criminals whom no one pities! Forgive us our weak
excuses and the sins we have committed one against
another in Thy Name."

The scene that capped the climax for absurdity
was one in which I was supposed to go to France
during the conference at which the Big Four were
deciding the fate of the world, and urge them to
bring the war to a finish. I was to stuff my mouth
with golden opinions and placatory speeches to the
councillors and generals against whose wicked stu-
pidities I had never missed a chance to vent my in-
dignation. To this day I am glad of the opportunity
they gave me to tell those spinners of human destiny
all that I thought of them! Full of "pomp and cir-
cumstance" without, and a volcano within, I walked
stiffly to the council board, escorted by Mr. Lloyd
George, and I remember I touched only the finger
tips of Monsieur Clemenceau's gloved hand. For-
tunately, we realized before we left Hollywood that

I MAKE BELIEVE I AM AN ACTRESS 207

this was too ridiculous, and it was not incorporated
in the picture, nor were many of our other flights of
fancy.

The memory of the last scenes always causes me to
smile, they were such a curious fantasy. I was sup-
posed to be a sort of Joan of Arc fighting for the
freedom of the workers of the world, and a vast pro-
cession was gathered for the march upon the bul-
warks of the enemy. I was placed at the front on a
white horse. I might have managed Peggy, for I
was accustomed to her gait, but alas! Peggy was
dark, and we must needs have a big white horse for
that grand occasion. The powerful creature I rode
was named Sligo, which is Irish, and his tempera-
ment was like his name. I really believe that he was
in his element in that wild charge of the imagination.
Of course it was a motley swarm of people dressed
in all sorts of queer costumes to represent all the
peoples of the earth, and there was a dreadful con-
fusion of horses, shouts, waving banners, and trump-
ets blown loud and long. Naturally, Sligo became
restive and charged as he should ; but the violence of
his movements was disconcerting to me, especially
as I held the reins in one hand and a trumpet in
the other, which I was directed to blow every now
and then. Out there in the fierce California sun I
grew hotter, redder, and more embarrassed every
second. The perspiration rolled down my face, and

2o8 MIDSTREAM

the trumpet tasted nasty. When without warning
Sligo decided to stand up on his hind legs, one of
the camera men, at the risk of his life, ran under
him and pulled on an invisible rein to bring him
down to earth again. I was glad when it was all over,
and my quaint fancy of leading the people of the
world to victory has never been so ardent since.

Chapter XIII

THE PLAY WORLD

The picture was not a financial success. My sense
of pride mutinies against my confession; but we are
the kind of people who come out of an enterprise
poorer than we went into it, and I am sorry to say,
this condition is not always confined to ourselves.

We returned to our home in Forest Hills and for
two years lived quietly. But we were faced with the
necessity of earning more money. The funds my
friends had provided for my support would cease
with my death, and if I died before my teacher, she
would be left almost destitute. The income I had I
could live on, but I could not save anything.

In the winter of 1920 we went into vaudeville and
remained until the spring of 1924. That does not
mean that we worked continually during all four
years. We appeared for short periods in and around
New York, in New England, and in Canada. In 1921
and 1922 we went from coast to coast on the
Orpheum Circuit.

It had always been said that we went into public
life only to attract attention, and I had letters from
friends in Europe remonstrating with me about "the

209

2IO MIDSTREAM

deplorable theatrical exhibition" into which I had
allowed myself to be dragged. Now the truth is, I
went of my own free will and persuaded my teacher
to go with me. Vaudeville offered us better pay than
either literary work or lecturing. Besides, the work
was easier in an essential respect — we usually stayed
in one place a week, instead of having to travel con-
stantly from town to town and speak so soon after
our arrival that we had no time for rest or prepara-
tion. We were on the stage only twenty minutes in
the afternoon and evening, and the rules of the
theatre usually protected us against the friendly in-
vasion of the crowds who used to swarm around to
shake hands with us at the lectures.

My teacher was not happy in vaudeville. She
could never get used to the rush, glare, and noise
of the theatre; but I enjoyed it keenly. At first it
seemed odd to find ourselves on the same ''bill" with
acrobats, monkeys, horses, dogs, and parrots ; but our
little act was dignified and people seemed to like it.

I found the world of vaudeville much more amus-
ing than the world I had always lived in, and I liked
it. I liked to feel the warm tide of human life puls-
ing round and round me. I liked to weep at its sor-
rows, to be annoyed at its foibles, to laugh at its ab-
surdities, to be set athrill by its flashes of unexpected
goodness and courage. I enjoyed watching the actors
in the workshop of faces and costumes. If I should re-

THE PLAY WORLD 211

late ^^the strength and riches of their state" — the
powder, the patches and masks, the ribbons, jewels,
and livery; and if I should describe the charm-
ing bits of acts which were performed for me off
stage I should be more voluminous than Who's Who
in America, I must be content to say I was often
admitted to the dressing room of the other actors,
and that many of them let me feel their costumes and
even went through their acts for me. The thought
often occurred to me that the parts the actors played
was their real life, and all the rest was make-believe.
I still think so, and hope it is true, for the sake of
many to whom fate is unkind in the real world.

I can conceive that in time the spectacle might
have grown stale. I might have come to hear the per-
sonal confessions of my fellow actors without emo-
tion, and to regard the details of wild parties and
excursions with impatience. But I shall always be
glad I went into vaudeville, not only for the excite-
ment of it, but also for the opportunities it gave me
to study life.

In the nature of things a lecture tour exposes one
to many unpleasant experiences. Our lecture contract
required that we collect the money before we went
on the platform, but that was seldom possible and we
disliked to imply distrust by demanding payment.
In Seattle we gave two lectures to appreciative
audiences, one in the afternoon and the other in the

212

MIDSTREAM

evening. The local manager told us he would not be
able to pay us our share, which was a thousand dol-
lars, until after the evening performance. He did
not appear in the theatre after the evening lecture,
and we had no way of getting our money from him.
Our manager was not interested in a lawsuit so far
away, and we were obliged to pay him a percentage
whether we were paid or not; so he suffered no loss
on our account.

This happened many times — in Dunkirk, New
York; Meadville, Pennsylvania; Ashtabula, Ohio;
and San Diego and Santa Rosa, California. In no
case was the town responsible ; it was the fault of the
local manager. Once when we did demand payment
and refused to appear when it was not made, the
audience became indignant, and the next morning
the newspapers came out with a great headline,
"Helen Keller refused to speak unless she held the
money in her hand." We decided never to put our-
selves in that position again. Once when we spoke at
Allerton, Iowa, a crowd came to hear us, and
our share of the proceeds — we were to go fifty-fifty
with the manager — was over seven hundred dollars.
It was amusing to see how reluctant the men in
charge were to pay it. In Vancouver we had so much
larger audience than the local manager expected that
he paid us twice as much as the contract called for.

Some of the theatres where we went were beauti-

THE PLAY WORLD 213

ful, and most of them comfortable. Mr. Albee, who
is at the head of the organization, is a man
of singular ability and kindness of heart, and
he concerns himself earnestly with everything that
promotes the welfare of the actors and the efficiency
of their work. Very few of them are permitted to
come into his presence, but his good will radiates
through his staff from one end of the system to the
other. We found most of our managers courteous,
and some of them were beloved. I shall always be
grateful to my personal manager, Mr. Harry Weber,
who never failed us in service and loyalty. Mr.
Albee is interested not only in the functioning of his
mammoth machine, but also in the human cogs and
wheels that make it go. Not one of these small cease-
lessly moving parts gets out of order but he knows
it, and makes every effort to repair it, whatever
the cause or the cost. He has kept individuals in
shows who are blind or deaf or crippled, but whose
handicap is cleverly concealed from the public. An
important branch of his humanitarian work is
the National Vaudeville Association, which has ten
thousand members. Each membership carries with it
a paid-up insurance policy of a thousand dollars, and
in cases of illness, idleness, or other misfortune, every-
one is sure to receive financial aid, no matter in what
part of the world he may be. The Association main-
tains a sanitarium for tubercular members, and there

214 MIDSTREAM

are health camps in California, Arizona, Colorado,
and other places.

The audiences always made us feel their interest
and friendliness. Som^etimes many of them were
foreigners, and could not understand what we said,
but their applause and sympathy were gratifying.
After my teacher had explained how I was taught,
I made my entrance and gave a brief talk, at the end
of which the audience was allowed to ask questions.
Some of them were very funny. Can you tell the time
of day without a watch? Have you ever thought of
getting married? Have you ever used a ouija board?
Do you think business is looking up? Am I going on
a trip? Why has a cow two stomachs? How much is
too many? Do you believe in ghosts? Do you think
it is a blessing to be poor? Do you dream? There
were hundreds of them.

I am always intensely conscious of my audience.
Before I say a word I feel its breath as it comes in
little pulsations to my face. I sense its appreciation
or indifiPerence. I found vaudeville audiences espe-
cially easy to speak before. They were much more
demonstrative than most others, and showed instantly
when they were pleased. One of the queerest experi-
ences I ever had was the first time I spoke from
a pulpit. The audience seemed so quiet and the read-
ing desk was so high I felt as if I were speaking to
them over a wall. A similar experience came when I

THE PLAY WORLD 215
spoke over the radio. I felt as if I were speaking to
ghosts. There were no life vibrations— no shuffling
feet, no sound of applause, no odour of tobacco or
cosmetics, only a blankness into which my words
floated. I never had that bewildered feeling before a
vaudeville audience.

Chapter XIV

MY MOTHER

It was while I was in vaudeville that the first
bereavement came which struck at the very roots
of my life. My mother died while we were appear-
ing in Los Angeles. My father's death, which oc-
curred while I was a young girl sixteen years old,
never seemed so real to me. But I had had my mother
all those years and fine ligaments of love and sym-
pathy had knit us together.

I have no vivid recollections of her before my
education began. I have a dim sensation of arms
about me, and hands that wiped away my tears; but
such memories are too vague to bring before me a
picture of her.

She used to tell me how happy she was when
I was born. She dwelt on her memories of the eight-
een months when I could see and hear. She told me
how, as soon as I could walk, I chased sunbeams and
butterflies, how I held out my little hands to pet
every creature I saw and was never afraid. "And
what wonderful eyes you had 1" she would say, "you
were always picking up needles and buttons which no
one else could find." She had a pretty workbasket

216

MY MOTHER 117

which stood on three slender legs, quite high above
the floor. It had holes all round near the top. She
loved to tell how I would come to her knees and lisp
something which she interpreted to mean, ^'I wonder
when I shall be tall enough to look through those
holes and see what is in the basket." She also re-
membered my delight in the open wood fire, and told
how I insisted upon sitting up late watching the
sparks and laughing as they danced up the chimney.
"Yes, life was good to us both for a few brief
months," she would say wistfully. Then when she was
twenty-three came the illness which left me deaf and
blind, and ^fter that life was never the same to her.
It was as if a white winter had swept over the June
of her youth; I know, although she never said it,
that she suffered more through me than through her
other children. Her nature was not expansive or
happy. She made few close friends, and wherever she
sojourned, the sorrow and loneliness of her spirit
persisted. The larger opportunities for enjoyment
and intellectual enrichment which she gained on her
journeys with us or her visits in our home at Wrent-
ham did not erase from her heart the sense of tragedy
and denial which my limitations kept always before
her. That her suffering was crushed into silence did
not lessen its intensity. But there was nothing selfish
in her sorrow. What she had suffered broadened and
deepened her sympathy for others.

2i8 MIDSTREAM

She never talked about herself. She was sensitive
even to the point of pain, and shy of revealing her-
self even to her children. But, veiled as her person-
ality was, she was always an intimate part of our
lives. It was inexpressibly sweet the way she said to
me that her last thought at night and her first thought
in the morning was of me. She suffered much from
rheumatism in her hands, and she found it most dif-
ficult to write in braille, which disappointed her
keenly because she never liked to have anyone read
her letters to me.

It is a comfort to me to believe that all she hoped
and prayed for was fulfilled in her second child, my
lovely sister Mildred. Five years after her birth came
my brother Phillips, who bears the name of one of
my earliest and dearest friends, Phillips Brooks.
When my father died, my mother devoted herself to
the bringing up of her two younger children. (I was
away from home most of the time, in New York and
Boston.) Then Mildred married Warren L. Tyson
of Montgomery, Alabama, and my mother spent the
later years of her life partly with them and with
me.

By temperament my mother was not domestic ; but
after she married my father, she had a large Southern
household to manage. She carried the whole burden
of housekeeping, supervision of negro workers, gar-
dening, looking after the poultry, preparing hams

MY MOTHER 219

and lard, sewing for the children, and entertaining
the guests whom my father brought home to dinner
almost every day. She was an expert in the science
of poultry-raising. Her hams were praised all the
country round; her jellies and preserves were the
envy of our neighbours. She went about these homely
tasks silent, unutterably sad, with me clinging to her
skirts. Tall and stately as Juno, she stood beside the
great iron kettles, directing the negroes in all the
processes of making lard. My teacher often won-
dered how such a sensitive, high-strung woman could
endure this sort of work; but my mother never com-
plained. She threw herself into these tasks as if she
had no other interest in life. Whatever the problem,
whether in the house, the chicken yard or out on the
farm, for the time being she gave her whole mind to
it. She said to Miss Sullivan once, "Of course lard-
making hasn't the charm of sculpture or architecture
or poetry; but I suppose it has its importance in the
universal scheme of things."

She was passionately devoted to her gardening and
to her flowers. Nothing delighted her more than to
nurse a plant weakling into strength and bloom. The
wealth of her heart had to spend itself even upon the
most unworthy of nature's children. One early spring
morning she went out to look at some young rose
bushes which she had set out some time before, think-
ing that the warm days were surely coming. She

110 MIDSTREAM

found that a heavy frost had killed them, and she
wrote me that very morning that *'like David when
his son died, she lifted up her voice and wept."

Her love of birds was equal to her love of flowers.
She would spend hours in the little wood near our
house in Wrentham watching their pretty antics
when they made love, or built their nests, or fed the
young birds and taught them to fly. The mocking
bird and the thrush were the darlings of her heart.

My mother talked intelligently, brilliantly, about
current events, and she had a Southerner's interest in
politics. But after my mind took a radical turn she
could never get over the feeling that we had drifted
apart. It grieves me that I should have added to the
sadness that weighed upon her, but I have the con-
solation of remembering that no differences could
take away from us the delight of talking together.

She was an omnivorous reader. She welcomed all
books new or old, in the English of Chaucer or the
English of Ruskin. She had a horror of mediocrity
and hypocrisy. I remember the scorn in her words
as she quoted some bromide that was pronounced by
a dull celebrity.In keenness of wit she resembled Mrs.
Carlyle, whose letters she read with pleasure. Mr.
Macy introduced her to Sydney Smith, and she used
to say that his sayings were a silent accompaniment
to her thoughts. BoswelPs Johnson also gave her
many bright moments. Bernard Shaw irritated her,

Copyright by Gerhard Sisters Photo Co.

Miss Keller s mother, Miss Sullivan {Mrs. Macy),
Miss Keller.

MY MOTHER

221

not because he was radical or sarcastic, but because he
was a chronic iconoclast. She had no patience with
Lawrence's books. She would exclaim, "He seems
incapable of conceiving purity and innocence in a
woman. To him love is indecent. No modest violets
grow in the fields of life for him."

But in the presence of true genius her humility-
was complete. Walt Whitman did not shock her. She
knew several of Balzac's books almost by heart. She
read Rabelais, Montesquieu, and Montaigne. When
she read Lanier she said '^his ^gray and sober dove,'
with the eye of faith and the wing of love, nestled in
her bosom."

One memorable summer we rented a cottage on
Lake St. Catherine, in Vermont. How we all enjoyed
the lovely lake, the pine-covered hills, and the wind-
ing green alleys they call roads in Vermont! I have
a mental picture of her which I treasure, seated on
the little porch which overlooked the lake, in the eve-
ning, her dear hands idle for a few minutes, while
she watched the children and young people in boats
and canoes, with a tender, wistful expression on her
beautiful face as the sun disappeared behind the
green hills.

When the World War burst upon us she refused
to talk about it, and when she saw the thousands of
young men who were encamped round about Mont-
gomery, her heart yearned to shield them from the

222

MIDSTREAM

horrors which awaited them. When Russia offered
her splendid peace terms to the Allies, my mother
said she wanted to stretch her arms across the ocean
and embrace the one country which had the courage
and the generosity to call war a crime against
humanity.

Her death came as she had always prayed it would,
swiftly, before she was old and dependent. She had
dreaded illness and the slow parting scenes that
usually precede death, and she desired that she
might die in her sleep, or suddenly. So it was ac-
cording to her wish that the end came. She was with
her dear ones in Montgomery, but no one saw her
die.

I received the telegram telling of her death two
hours before I had to go on the stage. I had not even
known she was ill. Every fibre of my being cried out
at the thought of facing the audience, but it had to be
done. Fortunately, they did not know what I was suf-
fering, and that made it a little easier for my teacher
and me. One of the questions asked me that day was,
^'How old are you?" How old, indeed! I felt as old
as time, and I answered, ''How old do I look?" The
people laughed, pleased that I had evaded telling
my age, which they supposed would have been em-
barrassing to me. Another question was, "Are you
happy?" I swallowed hard and answered: "Yes, be-
cause I have confidence in God." Then it was over,

MY MOTHER 223

and for a little while I could sit alone with my sor-
row. I had absolute faith that we should meet again
in the Land of Eternal Beauty; but oh, the dreary
blank her going left in my life! I missed her every-
where I went over the road she had travelled with
me. I missed her braille letters, and she seemed
to have died a second time when I visited my sister
in Montgomery the following April. The only
thought that upheld me was that in the Great Be-
yond where all truth shines revealed she would find
in my limitations a satisfying sense of God's purpose
of good which runs like a thread of gold through all
things.

Chapter XV
LUX IN TENEBRIS

It was in 1 92 1 that the central clearing house which
had for so many years been recognized as the chief
need of the blind came into being. It was conceived
by a blind man, Mr. H. Randolph Latimer, Super-
intendent of the Western Pennsylvania Institution
for the Blind, and launched at the annual meeting of
the American Association of Workers for the Blind,
in Vinton, Iowa.

Its first president was Mr. M. C. Migel of New
York. It is because of his constant helpfulness that
the American Foundation for the Blind has achieved
the degree of usefulness which it has to-day. With
the cooperation of his friends he financed it until
1924 v^hen an appeal was made to the public for a
permanent endowment and Mrs. Macy and I were
asked to lecture in its behalf.

It is not pleasant to go begging even for the best
of causes, but in our present civilization most philan-
thropic and educational institutions are supported
by public donations and gifts from wealthy
citizens. This is a wretched way, but we have not yet

learned a better one, and until we do, individuals

224

LUX IN TENEBRIS 225

like myself will continue to travel up and down the
land, and up and down in the elevators of great
office buildings, to solicit funds from rich men. We
will stand at doors and street corners, hat in hand,
begging pennies from every passer-by, we will climb
on to the running board of automobiles held in
traffic to plead with some wealthy person to take our
precious cause under his golden wing.

During all the years of lecturing, picture-making,
and vaudeville I had never ceased to dream of a hap-
pier world for the sightless, but no practical way of
realizing this dream had presented itself until now.
Throughout my journeys all over the country I had
realized that in spite of all that had been done for
the blind, in spite of all that had been written about
them, people still considered them a group apart.

Dear reader, let me ask you to stop for a moment '
and try to visualize your blind neighbour. You have
met him often in the street, in sunshine and in rain,
cautiously threading his way among his unseen fel-
lows, his cane tapping the pavement, his body tense,
his ears straining to hear sounds that will guide him
in the invisible maze. You have glanced at him pity-
ingly, and gone your way thinking how strange his
thoughts must be, his feelings how different from
your own. My friend, have done with this cruel
illusion and try to learn the truth. Hearts are hearts
and pain is pain, and joy, ambition, and love are in

226 MIDSTREAM

the blind man even as in you. He wants the same
things that you do. Like you he dreams of love and
success and happiness. You v^ould still be yourself if
an accident blinded you to-morrov^; your desires
w^ould be the same.

You have perhaps thought that his greatest loss is
that he is not able to enjoy the colours of the sunset,
the contours of the hills, the moon and the stars,
but he could tell you that he v^ould not mind very
much that the blue sky is blotted out if he could shake
off the thousand petty restraints that encompass him.
The hardest thing we have to bear is that we cannot
I go about the simplest matters of life alone. With
jail our hearts we desire to be strong, free, and
useful.

In most countries and most ages, the blind have
been considered, with a few outstanding exceptions,
as objects of charity, of pity, of contempt, even of
cruelty. The affliction has frequently been looked
upon as a Divine visitation, and the role of the blind
man has been that of the beggar by the wayside, and
his dwelling place has been the almshouse. Yet even
under these hard conditions there have emerged
from this realm of never-ending darkness many
heroic figures. As Milton proudly said, "It is not so
wretched to be blind as it is not to be capable of en-
during blindness."

We do not ask to be coddled. It is the last thing

LUX IN TENEBRIS 227

tHe blind need. It is not helpful but in the long run
harmful to buy worthless articles because a blind
person made them, but for many years kind-hearted
people have been buying useless and often ugly
things for no other reason. Quantities of beadwork,
to take only one example, which could appeal to no
eye but the eye of pity have passed as specimens of
what the blind can do. Yet with a lovely design and
a little supervision the blind can do as beautiful
beadwork as the seeing.

Even in the matter of books the seeing have shown
that they consider us a group apart. They have often
contributed books of a rather gloomy, preachy char-
acter to our reading rooms, apparently supposing
that our books must be in keeping with our mis-
fortune. But it is worth while to notice that the cheer-
ful books are well-thumbed while the mournful ones
stand unmolested in stern dignity on the upper shelf.

The number of books we have is far greater than
it was when I was in school, but in comparison with
those of the seeing we have few indeed. I have been
told that for the seeing more than 10,000 titles a year
are published. We have in all, outside of textbooks,
3150 titles. We are grateful for them, but we are
hungry for more and more variety.

Much is being done to assuage this hunger. For-
merly the fact that a book was in raised print did not
mean that all the blind could read it, but since the

228 MIDSTREAM
Uniform Type Committee of the American Asso-
ciation of Workers for the Blind has brought about
the adoption of one system of embossed print
throughout America, everything henceforth will be
easily read by all the blind. This was done through
the generosity of Mr. Migel, who financed the work
of the committee. The head of the committee was
Robert B. Irwin, our beloved comrade in the dark
who is now head of the Bureau of Research and
Information of the Foundation. Congress gives an
annual appropriation for the embossing of books and
many states have chapters of Red Cross transcribers.
After provision was made for the reeducation of men
blinded in the War many women throughout the
country took up the transcribing of books. Not only
have the blinded soldiers benefited by this service, but
sightless high school and college students have been
helped. Learning to write braille is not more difficult,
and there are still hundreds of women who might
brighten the dark hours of the blind by copying
stories or poems for them.

There are among the blind to-day many with
intelligence enough to share the responsibilities and
rewards of our common humanity. The worst period
that most of them go through comes when they
graduate from school. No matter what their hopes
may have been they are likely to see them fade away.

LUX IN TENEBRIS 229

The prejudice of the seeing to whom blindness means
inefficiency is such that the blind, confronted with
the practical problem of making a living, turn away
from competition in the open market to the work-
shop. Not infrequently they escape the workshop
only to find themselves street musicians. The street
life pays them better, but those who follow it deepen
the public prejudice against the blind.

To-day no blind person can succeed in any of the
higher professions unless he possesses a fighting spirit
and a personality that attracts attention. Even then he
needs a strong helping hand. I have known students
to spend ten years and more in schools for the blind,
receive a thorough training in piano, violin, organ,
or voice, at a cost to the state of thousands of dollars,
and after leaving school full of hope and ambition,
find themselves back in their own homes with their
uneducated families without a piano, without money,
without friends, the institution which educated them
having left them to shift for themselves as best they
might. I am thinking of one young man who was
considered a virtuoso who is now earning his liveli-
hood tuning pianos. He cannot play any more; his
hands are so stiff from carrying his bag of tools.
There is a young lady not far from my own home
with a beautifully trained voice who earns a meagre
wage folding circulars. I can think of many others

230 MIDSTREAM

with various talents who might be musicians, writers,
editors, statesmen and ministers if they had been
given assistance when they left school.

Until the Foundation came into being there was
only one national organization at work on the prob-
lems of the blind. That was the National Committee,
which is now the National Society for the Preven-
tion of Blindness. It was, and still is, doing one of
the most important pieces of work in this country. It
is not only helping conserve the sight of large num-
bers of children who have defective vision which, if
neglected, will develop into blindness, it is estab-
lishing sight saving classes in the public schools and
it is investigating the causes of blindness in industry
and elsewhere, and is getting laws passed to lessen
the danger from preventable causes.

It seems hard to believe now that twenty years ago
the leading cause of blindness in the new-born,
ophthalmia neonatorum, could not even be discussed
in public. Massachusetts, as I have said in an earlier
chapter, was one of the leaders in this campaign. She
passed a law which was immediately followed in
other states. The law required that every case of
disease of the eye in the new-born should be reported
and investigated. The remedy was provided gra-
tuitously, with a statement from the highest medical
authorities as to its purity and safety. To-day
twenty-nine states have passed similar laws. I

LUX IN TENEBRIS 231

think it was the happiest moment of my life when
Mr. Allen, director of the Massachusetts School for
the Blind, told me only a few months ago that the
day nursery for blind babies which was once full of
little sightless ones, with a long waiting list, is now
almost empty. The work of prevention is close to
my heart, and I am sorry that it is not possible for
me to take a more active part in it. I have been
greatly encouraged by the interest the Lions have
shown. In various places extending from Black-
well, Oklahoma, to Tsing Tao, China, they have
opened free clinics for eye correction among chil-
dren. To-day in New York and indeed everywhere
thousands of oculists are spending their lives to make
people see better and to ward off blindness in the
eyes of the new-born. A great hospital has just been
opened in connection with Johns Hopkins Medical
School in Baltimore under Dr. William Holland
Wilmer, one of the leading ophthalmologists in the
world, who has retired from private practice in order
to devote himself to teaching and research in con-
nection with diseases of the eye. This is a great step
in the right direction.

The doctors in New York are flanked by an army
of nurses who teach the patients how to carry out the
doctor's directions. Many of the patients are not
only poor ; they are ignorant, and numbers of them can
neither speak nor understand English. This work in

232 MIDSTREAM

the homes is very important, very necessary, and very
costly, but it is work that has to be done, and I wish
that those people who picture New York as a selfish
city grabbing all things and making no return could
see how marvellously she handles this tremendous
task.

What the Foundation proposed to do was to cor-
relate the scattered and disorganized work for the
blind, to prevent duplication of effort, to see to it that
each class of the blind receives the particular help
it needs, and to give direction and effectiveness to
the local commissions.

When we started on the campaign for the Foun-
dation four years ago the public received us with
open arms. For three years we covered the country
from coast to coast. We addressed over 250,000
people at 249 meetings in 123 cities. Through attend-
ing innumerable luncheons and receptions and pay-
ing endless calls on persons likely to be interested in
our work we came to understand what must be the
exhaustion of campaigning political candidates. But
we had an advantage over the politicians : they met
divided support while our cause appealed to all
parties.

The wiseacres say that after forty we cannot
expect many pleasant surprises. I have not found
this true. Some of the most joyful surprises I have
known in my life have come since my fortieth birth-

LUX IN TENEBRIS 133

day, many of them in connection with my work for f
the blind. Dr. Henry van Dyke is one.

When the time came to select a national chair-
man for our campaign, I remembered Elbert Hub-
bard's advice, "When you want to get something
done, go to the busiest man you know. The other kind
hasn't time." My mind leapt at once to Dr. van
Dyke. I knew he was a busy man. I recalled the
things he had been doing the past twenty-five years —
teaching in Princeton, preaching and lecturing about
the country for several years, three years in the
diplomatic service, a year in the navy during the
World War, many years of writing books that people
loved, still more years of making the acquaintance
of the great out-of-doors, and bringing up a family
of five children and nine grandchildren. Even if I
passed over the hours Dr. van Dyke spent fishing
in many waters, I still felt that he was the man to
launch a new project and to see it through.

I could not have picked a better one. Dr. van
Dyke is the kind of a friend to have when one
is up against a difficult problem. He will take
trouble, days and nights of trouble, if it is for some-
body else or for some cause he is interested in. "I'm
not an optimist," says Dr. van Dyke, "there's too
much evil in the world and in me. Nor am I a pessi-
mist; there is too much good in the world and in
God. So I am just a meliorist, believing that He wills

/

234 MIDSTREAM

to make the world better, and trying to do my bit to
help and wishing that it were more."

The generosity and enthusiasm of Mr. Otto Kahn
was a great help to us in the beginning. The far-
reaching beams of his benevolence have illuminated
the world of the dark not only in this country but in
England as well.

Throughout the country newspapers opened their
pages to us. Churches, schools, synagogues, women's
clubs, the Junior Leagues, the Boy and Girl Scouts
and the service clubs, especially the Lions, have as-
sisted us in every way, holding meetings, soliciting
funds, giving luncheons, and making contributions.
The Lions, in particular, have made the work for the
blind their major activity, just as the Rotarians have
made crippled children their special charge.

Nearly everywhere we met with a spirit of coop-
eration that made our hearts glad. In the winter of
1926 I spent a week in Washington. Dr. van Dyke
came from Princeton to assist me, and our hopes were
high when we knew that the cause of the blind was
to be heard in the First City of the land. It was
there that the National Library for the Blind was
established, and an annual appropriation granted for
embossing books; there, too, that the work of re-
habilitating our blinded soldiers had begun. Our
hopes were not disappointed.

One morning at twelve o'clock n\y teacher and I

LUX IN TENEBRIS 235

called upon President Coolidge at the White House.
He received us most kindly. I had always heard that
he was cold, but there was not the least coldness in
his hand. He had only a few minutes to spare from a
strenuous day, but he listened attentively to what I
told him about the Foundation, then, placing my
fingers on his lips, he said, "I am greatly interested
in your work, and I will cooperate with you in every
possible way."

He proved he was sincere by becoming our Hon-
orary President, and by sending me his private check
for a generous donation. I found in Mrs. Coolidge
one whose heart is responsive to every whisper of sor-
row. She told me she had always been interested in
the deaf— she had taught the deaf at Northampton
many years ago — and added that she would be happy
to help brighten the dark world of the sightless.

I also called up Senator Borah, Thomas Schall
(the blind Senator), and Mr. and Mrs. Lansing.
They all did what they could to make my visit to
Washington a success. Many other people in Wash-
ington helped with money and sympathy, among
them Mr. Gilbert Grosvenor and his wife, Elsie,
Dr. Bell's daughter, my playmate of long ago, Phil
and Lenore Smith, Mrs. Frederic Hicks, the Ger-
man Ambassador, Herr von Maltzan, and Mrs.
Wadsworth, the daughter of John Hay. Mrs. Wads-
worth gave a beautiful tea in her home, and her kind-

236 MIDSTREAM

ness will ever be a part of my most affectionate
memories of Washington.

In Detroit my friend of many years in the work
for the sightless, Mr. Charles F. F. Campbell, di-
rector of the Detroit League for the Handicapped,
was indefatigable in his efforts to capture that city
for my cause. One night at a mass meeting sponsored
by the Junior League we raised forty-two thousand
dollars before we left the auditorium. Nor did the
interest of Detroit stop after my departure. Only
within the last few days I have received checks rang-
ing from one dollar to fifty-five hundred dollars.
Among those who have made Detroit the banner city
of my crusade are Mr. and Mrs. Henry Joy, Mrs.
Seyburn, Mr. Warren, Mr. W. O. Briggs, the six
Fisher brothers, and Mr. and Mrs. Edsel Ford.

Next to this meeting in Detroit comes one which
we held in Philadelphia. It was the second meeting
of the campaign, when very little was known of the
Foundation and its purposes. Mr. Edward Bok pre-
sided, and Dr. van Dyke poured a flood of golden
words into the responsive hearts of the people. We
raised twenty-two thousand dollars that Sunday
afternoon.

In two large cities, St. Louis and Chicago, workers
for the sightless requested me not to speak, and we
have respected their wishes. Only one city invited
us and then gave us the cold shoulder. For some

LUX IN TENEBRIS 237

reason I am unable fully to understand Buffalo re-
fused to be interested in the national aspect of the
work for the blind. When I arrived at the auditorium
where the meeting was to take place, and found only
about twenty persons present, I thought there must
have been a mistake in the date given out; but alas!
there was not even that salve for my bruised feelings.
The people were simply not interested. In five days
I collected only about three thousand dollars, while
in Rochester, which has about half the population of
Buffalo, more than fifteen thousand dollars was given
in less time. No doubt part of my success was due
to the enthusiasm and generosity of Mrs. Edmund
Lyon whom I had first met many years before, when
my teacher and Dr. Bell and I visited the Rochester
School for the Deaf where she was teaching. Two
other friends in Rochester whom I remember with
gratitude are Mr. and Mrs. Harper Sibley who held
up the work for the blind with both hands.

I had thought that the stars in filmland might be
especially sensitive to our appeal, since the breath
and substance of their life was light, but I found
that I was mistaken. I wrote letter after letter which
I left at the studios, but never an answer did I re-
ceive, except from Mary Pickford. The silence that
came back penetrated even my deaf ears. Naturally
my heart thrilled at the responsiveness of Mary
Pickford and her husband, Douglas Fairbanks.

238 MIDSTREAM

I had, of course, known Mary Pickford as a child
knows the characters of fairyland. I did not think this
shadow acquaintance would ever become a reality,
but fairy tales do sometimes come true and I have a
bright memory of the day when the shadow Mary
was transformed into a smiling little girl wearing
a faded gingham frock and patched shoes and two
long braids of golden hair. She had invited us to the
studio grounds for lunch. She rushed out of a tiny
cottage to greet us. I was accompanied by Mrs.
Macy, Miss Thomson, and Mr. Charles Hayes of
the American Foundation staff. She said that Mr.
Fairbanks would be in soon, but we would not wait
for him. "When we are working," she said, "we can't
be regular about anything. That is why we live here
most of the time when we are making pictures." She
was working on "Little Annie Rooney" at the time,
and Mr. Fairbanks was just finishing "Don Q."
While we were eating lunch, I told Mary (I simply
cannot call that slip of a girl in faded gingham and
patched shoes Mrs. Fairbanks) the object of my
visit to California. She listened intently and made
intelligent comments while I talked. She said that
before she became a motion picture actress, she had
been on the stage, and in her first play had taken the
part of a blind girl. She said that it had been in
her mind a long time to make a picture with a young
blind girl the central figure. She gave an attractive

LUX IN TENEBRIS 239

sketch of the story and asked me if I would offer sug-
gestions when the time came. I promised to come out
to Hollywood and see to it that her blind girl did
none of the absurd, impossible things which the
sightless are usually made to do on the stage.

Douglas Fairbanks came in, just as we finished
lunch, with his director, Donald Crisp. Mr. Fair-
banks was limping slightly, as he had sprained his
ankle in one of the episodes in the picture, and there
was a long gash on Mr. Crisp's face where Don Q
had cut him with a whip. Mary told him what we
had been talking about and said that she wanted to
give a percentage of the proceeds of the picture to
the blind. He replied, 'That's splendid, Mary," but
the picture has not yet been made. I believe there
was some difficulty about the plot she had in mind
then, but I still hope that she will carry out her
beautiful plan.

We spent the afternoon watching Mary work. She
seated me within the "location," so that I could feel
her and her hoodlum gang running past, and sense
their yells and the commotion when the two hostile
gangs encountered each other. Several times a scene
had to be repeated because the boys were so interested
in seeing Mrs. Macy spell to me that they fumbled.
When we said good-bye I realized with new poign-
ancy how good Mary was to see me when she was
working on a picture. I carried away in my heart

HO MiDStREAM

an image of a little body tense with exertion, a sweet,
warm face, and the touch of hot, dirty little hands
that were full of good will.

One of the pleasantest contacts that I made on this
trip was with Carrie Jacobs Bond. We dined with
her delightfully, and afterwards, in the drawing
room, she sang her poems which she had set to music.
The songs were so sweet and intimate one felt that
if one could sit there a while longer one could sing
the songs oneself.

It was on this trip also that I visited Luther Bur-
bank's experimental gardens in Santa Rosa and saw
plants and fruits and flowers that never were found
on earth before. The man who guided me had
created these miracles. Very gently he put my hand
on the desert cactus which no living creature could
touch without pain. Beside it he showed me the
thornless cactus he had made from it — smooth and
pleasant and good to eat.

It is not only because of my charming visits with
them that I treasure the memory of these friends, but
also because of the warmth of their interest in the
blind. Another friend who was zealous for the
work in Southern California was Dr. John Willis
Baer of Pasadena. He is a yea-sayer, and his lips
were touched with fire when he pleaded the cause of
America's hundred thousand blind.

For two years now I have not been able to continue

LUX IN TENEBRIS 241

my lectures for the campaign owing to the necessity
of keeping a promise of some years standing by writ-
ing this book, but I have written many letters, and
when the book is finished I shall go on the road again.
We have still a million and a half dollars to raise.

Nothing has made me happier during these two
years than the way the gifts have kept coming in.
Last year Mr. John D. Rockefeller, Jr., who has
made of his millions a weapon to shake ignorance
out of its citadel, contributed fifty thousand dollars.
A few days ago he added an equal amount to his
original donation. Mr. M. C. Migel, without whom
the Foundation could scarcely have lived through
those first hard years, has made a further contribu-
tion of fifty thousand dollars. Mr. Felix Warburg
has given fifty thousand, and Mr. William Ziegler,
the son of the Mrs. Ziegler who founded the
Matilda Ziegler Magazine for the Blind, gave ten
thousand. Mr. Samuel Mather of Cleveland, Harry
Goldman, Mrs. Felix Fuld of Newark, and the
Nathan Hofheimer foundation have given five
thousand each. Mr. Graselli, who established a home
for the adult blind in Cleveland, put his generous
donation into my hand with such sv^eet trepidation
that it seemed as if he, not I, was the beggar at the
gate. It is with an especially grateful heart that I
write the name of Mrs. Fuld. Her kindness to me
personally is a lovely thing in my life. The contribu-

242 MIDSTREAM

tions have become so numerous as to make it impos-
sible to mention each by name. While I am praising
the large givers my heart is remembering those
whose names cannot be written for multitude,
yet the fund has been built up of their mites,
and the work of the Foundation has been made
possible by their generosity. As Miss Thomson opens
the mail checks tumble out of envelopes from school
children and Sunday school classes, from Germans
and Chinese and Japanese, from old soldiers, from
the deaf and the blind. This morning's mail brought
a donation of five thousand dollars from a group in
Detroit, and another of one dollar from a poor work-
ing girl.

The way children have responded has been very
touching. They bring their little banks and empty
them into my lap and they write dear letters offer-
ing the money given them for soda water and candy.
At a meeting in Endicott, N. Y., a fifteen-year-old
boy who was an invalid, Bradford Lord, sent me a
wonderful bouquet of roses and a contribution of five
hundred dollars towards the Endowment Fund. The
roses have withered long ago, and the young heart
that stirred to that fine impulse has ceased to beat,
but the lovely deed will blossom forever in the gar-
den of my soul.

Chapter XVI

MUTED STRINGS

It is seldom now that I think of my deprivations,
and they never sadden me as they once did when I
had bitter moments of rebellion because I must sit
at life's shut gate and fight down the passionate im-
pulses of my nature. I know that a great many people
pity me because I can show so little visible proof of
living. They are often supercilious and sometimes
contemptuous of the "poor thing" who is so shut out
from everything they know. Meeting me in one of
the noisy arenas of commerce they are as startled as if
they had encountered a ghost on Broadway. At such
times I smile inwardly and gather my dreams about
me. My reason for living would be lost if the reality
they think they see did not hide her cruel face from
me under a veil of pleasant illusions — if they are
illusions. One will not quarrel over definitions if one
has the substance, and I feel that, since I have found
existence rich in happiness and interest, I have the
substance.

It would be wonderful to find myself free from
even a small part of my physical limitations. It would
be wonderful to walk around town alone with the

243

244 MIDSTREAM

key of the house in my bag to let myself in and out,
to come and go without a word to anyone, to read
the newspapers without waiting, and pick out a
pretty handkerchief or a becoming hat in the shops.

Oh, the weariness of sitting hours upon hours in
the same attitude as I have to do sometimes, not dar-
ing to look around or move an arm lest I be stared at
or my uncertain movements misconstrued! I cannot
see people staring at me; but I am always accom-
panied by persons who can see, and it is embarrassing
to them. I am told that in the Orient people avert
their eyes when a blind man passes, and the Arabs
cover their eyes with their hands when they enter his
dwelling. I wish this sensibility were more prevalent
here. I understand perfectly the state of mind which
caused Lafcadio Hearn to go to Japan, where the
people were too courteous to notice his ungainly
appearance.

I seem now to be complaining, but sitting here in
my study, surrounded by my books, enjoying the
intimate companionship of the great and the wise, I
sometimes try to realize what my life might have
been if Dr. Samuel Gridley Howe had not had the
imagination to realize that the immortal spirit of
Laura Bridgman had not died when her physical
senses were sealed up. When Dr. Howe began her
education those afflicted as I am with blindness and
deafness were referred to in legal treatises as idiots.

MUTED STRINGS 245

Dr. Howe frequently quoted from Blackstone's
Commentaries the following passage:

A man is not an idiot, if he hath any glimmerings of reason
so he can tell his parents, his age, or the like matters. But a man
who is born deaf, dumb, and blind is looked upon by the law as
in the same state with an idiot; he being supposed incapable of
any understanding, as wanting all those senses which furnish the
mind with ideas.

I remember Laura very well. My interest in her
began almost with my first word. My teacher knew
her intimately. She had lived in the same cottage
with her at the Perkins Institution; and it was Laura
who taught her the manual alphabet. Miss Sullivan
has told me how excited Laura was when she learned
that her friend was going to Alabama to teach a blind
deaf child. She had much advice to give as to my
training. She admonished Miss Sullivan not to spoil
me by letting me become disobedient. She made the
clothes for a doll which the blind girls at the Insti-
tution sent me, and this doll was the object selected
for my first word. She wrote to Miss Sullivan fre-
quently in the early days of my education.

Laura was one of the first persons whom Miss
Sullivan took me to see when I visited the Institution.
We found her sitting by the window in her room
crocheting lace. She recognized my teacher's hand
instantly, and seemed very glad to see her. She kissed

246 MIDSTREAM
me kindly; but when I tried to examine the lace, she
instinctively put it out of my reach, spelling rather
emphatically, "I'm afraid your hands are not clean."
Her hands were beautiful, finely formed, delicate,
and expressive. I wanted to feel her face;, but she
shrank away like a mimosa blossom from my peering
fingers, for the same reason, no doubt, that she would
not let me touch the lace. Laura was extremely dainty
in all her ways, and exquisitely neat. My strong, im-
pulsive movements disturbed her greatly. She said
to Miss Sullivan, "You have not taught her to be
very gentle." To me she said, emphasizing each
letter, "You must not be forward when calling on a
lady." After that I decided to sit on the floor; but
Laura jerked me up and spelled, "You must not sit
on the floor when you have on a clean dress. You will
muss it. You must remember many things when you
understand them."

In my eagerness to kiss her good-bye I trod on her
toes, which greatly annoyed her, and made me feel
like the bad little girl of the Sunday school books.

Later she told Miss Sullivan I was "vivacious, but
not blunt." To me she seemed like a statue I had once
felt in a garden, she was so motionless, and her hands
were so cool, like flowers that have grown in shady
places.

My experience and Laura's were so closely paral-
lel in their outward aspects that we have often been

MUTED STRINGS 247

compared. We were about the same age when we lost
our sight and hearing. We were aHke in that ahhough
our parents and friends were exceedingly kind to us
we both grew restless, willful, and destructive be-
cause we had no adequate means of expressing our
desires. It was when Laura was about seven years
old that Dr. Howe came to her rescue. He says that
he found her a well-formed child with a nervous,
sanguine temperament, a large and beautifully
shaped head, healthy and active. In her letters Miss
Sullivan describes me in almost these same words;
oddly enough we both had blue eyes and light brown
hair. And I, too, was seven years old when my
education began.

Here the resemblance ends. We were educated in
a different manner. This is a subject into which I
should like to enter more fully, but obviously I am
not the person to compare the methods of my own
education with those employed in teaching Laura
Bridgman and other deaf-blind children; I leave the
task to those who are more detached. From what I
have read of Laura I am sure that she was bright and
eager, and I believe that if she had had my teacher
she would have outshone me.

Of all the blind-deaf people I have known the one
closest to me in temperament and sympathy of ideas
is Madame Berthe Galeron, a French woman with
whom I have corresponded for over twenty years.

248 MIDSTREAM

We both find our chief delight and freedom in books.
We both feel the impediment of deafness far more
keenly than that of blindness. Both our lives have
been made beautiful with affection and friendship.
As my teacher is ever by my side, making the way
straight before me, so has Monsieur Galeron watched
over his wife for thirty years, guarding her against
every hardship. On the other hand Madame Galeron
has always been content to dream and sing while I
have ever been impatient for the utmost activity I
could compass.

Madame Galeron lost her sight completely when
she was ten years old, and her hearing partially a few
weeks later. At first this deafness was not serious;
for with a little effort she could still understand what
was said to her, and enjoy music. She was educated
with care and devotion by her father, a dis-
tinguished French professor, who fostered her taste
for literary work. She wrote several plays, two of
which were acted in Paris. During the years that
followed she wrote the book of poems, Dans Ma
Nuit, by which she is best known. Among her father's
friends were great men in whose intellectual talk she
delighted. One of them, Victor Hugo, addressed a
poem to her in which he called her "La grande
Voyante." And truly; for with her wonderful powers
of imagination and memory she penetrated deeply
into the intimacies of life.

MUTED STRINGS 249

It was when her hearing finally failed that she
tasted the real bitterness of affliction.

She and her husband had been out for a little while,
and on their return they sat down to read together.
She has told me in her letters how she used to love his
voice. 'When he read to me," she says, ''we were
most completely together, and our spirits met in
exquisite feeling." But when they settled down on
this fateful day to enjoy Pierre Loti's Au Maroc,
something strange happened. M. Galeron had hardly
begun to speak when she experienced a buzzing in
her ear. The syllables kept repeating themselves and
clashing like discordant echoes. After a few minutes
she was obliged to give up in despair. In a day or
two she could hear neither voices nor noises of any
kind. Her ear died, as she expressed it, and for the
first time she was quite shut out from the music and
the brilliant intercourse she so passionately loved.

Fortunately, Monsieur Galeron knew the braille
system, and from that time he and the writing frame
were inseparable. He wrote everything he could to
amuse, comfort, and encourage her. At the end of
each day she waited for his return from work as the
shipwrecked wait for aid, and his wonderful affec-
ition always roused her out of her nightmare. Madame
Galeron declares that no one can ever imagine their
efforts to prevent the cruel barriers of silence from
separating them until they read in The Story of My

250 MIDSTREAM

Life that I could read the lips. This was the begin-
ning of our friendship. Madame Galeron asked me
many questions about this means of communication.
The first time she tried it she was able to read from
the lips of a friend a sonnet of Heredia. In a letter
full of delight she wrote to me, "What joy this suc-
cess brought me. I was saved 1 Now I know I shall
always enjoy sweet communion with my loved ones."

I have received a letter from Mme. Galeron to-
day with a copy of her poems in braille. These poems
offer to posterity a precious example of courage and
sweetness. I think that perhaps when the generals
and statesmen of France are forgotten the poems will
remain a testimony to the energy of a spirit uncon-
quered by the disaster which overwhelmed its out-
ward life.

I saw more of Theodocia Pearce than of any other
deaf-blind person. She was a sweet girl from Brant-
ford, Canada, with whom fate had dealt cruelly.
Besides losing her sight and hearing at the age of
twelve, she suffered from spinal curvature and had
to be strapped to her bed for three years. For several
years she wrote me letters in the form of dainty
poems. Then she came to New York, urged, she said,
by a tameless desire for adventure. Four years later
she died, worn out by her fight against forces she had
not the physical strength to resist. She wrote a book of

MUTED STRINGS 251

poems which she called, Lights from Little Lanterns,
which she dedicated to me.

Helen Schulz is another deaf-blind girl who
proves that the spirit can sing in spite of limitations.
She was adopted fourteen years ago by Miss Lydia
Hayes, a blind woman who is the head of the New
Jersey Commission for the Blind. Miss Hayes has
often told me, her fingers a-tremble with emotion,
that when she saw Miss Sullivan's beautiful work
with me, she resolved that she, too, would bring the
light of joy into the life of a deaf-blind child. It is a
touching story how under her loving care the wistful
lonely child has grown into a happy young woman. A
similar case is that of Helen Martin who, though she
has not heard a sound or seen the light since her
childhood, plays the piano. Those who go to her con-
certs express surprise at her delicacy of touch. It was
through Miss Rebecca Mack, my friend whom I call
the champion of the deaf-blind, that a fund was
raised which gave her freedom to develop her
musical talent.

There used to be at the Nebraska School for the
Blind a merry girl of thirteen who wrote me letters
so full of delight in her studies that I could feel the
mischievous, joyous spirit laughing out of her dotted
pages. She said she was so busy learning new things
every day that she had no time to think of her mis-

252 MIDSTREAM

fortunes. When I met her a few years ago during
my visit to Detroit in behalf of the blind I found that
she had married a man who worked at the Ford
plant. She told me how cleverly he had contrived to
make ''the dearest little home you can imagine — a
home I keep myself." She threw up her little hand
eagerly and hurried on, "That isn't all. I have a
beautiful, healthy darling boy, seven years old. I
have everything any woman can want! There's no
incompleteness in my life!"

Another interesting blind-deaf woman is Katie
McGirr, who for a number of years earned a living
for herself and her mother at the office of the Matilda
Ziegler Magazine for the Blind. She read the proofs
of the magazine each month as they came off the
press, and she copied on the typewriter the hundreds
of letters which Mr. Holmes, the editor, received in
dotted type, and which he could not read himself.
Since he did not know the manual alphabet he used
to communicate with her by writing script in her
hand or on her arm or back. I am happy to say that
Katie now has a small pension from the state of
New York.

Every now and then I have had the pleasure of
meeting again Tommy Stringer, whom I first knew
when we were both children. The last time was when
a vaudeville engagement took me to Syracuse, New
York, where he lives with some friends. He told me

MUTED STRINGS 253

proudly that he made crates and lettuce frames for a
living, and he described his room full of tools and
things he tried to invent ''out of his own head." As
he spelled into my hand, I remembered the little boy
v^ho once lay in a hospital bereft of light, neglected
by his family, no one near to love him, and I v^as
more glad than ever that my teacher and I had per-
suaded Mr. Anagnos to let Tommy come to the
Kindergarten for the Blind.

I could go on writing page after page about the
deaf-blind. Naturally this class of the handicapped
appeals to me more strongly than any other. It dis-
tresses me to think that though forty years have
passed since I was restored to my human heritage,
the question of providing for those who dwell forever
in silence and darkness remains unsettled to this day.

Many problems present themselves. One of the
greatest needs is of a census of the blind-deaf in the
United States. Rebecca Mack has for the past two
years been engaged in making such a census. Thus
far she has three hundred and seventy-nine names.
Father Stadelman thinks there may be as many as
two thousand, including the old and infirm. Fifteen
of those whose names Miss Mack has are of school
age and should be taught.

I have often been asked for suggestions as to the
best way of caring for such children. They are widely
scattered over the country. Very few of the parent?

254 MIDSTREAM

are able to afford a private teacher, and even those
who can have difficulty in finding one who is willing
to go to the place where the child lives. It is too much
to ask the teachers in either the schools for the blind
or for the deaf to look after these doubly unfortunate
ones. Such an arrangement does not do justice either
to the teacher or the pupil. Moreover, the problem
is not for the average teacher, but for the one
who has special training, ability, and imagination.
Each deaf-blind child is different from every other,
and should, therefore, receive individual attention.

I have never favoured a special school for these
children, but perhaps in the end it will be the wisest
way to help them. I would rather see each state make
a special appropriation for each child, and place him
in the state school for the blind with a special teacher.
In this way the child will have the companionship
of other children, and will be much nearer to his own
home than he would be if a national school was
established. I say a school for the blind rather than
for the deaf because the blind have a better command
of language. It has been the experience of the Perkins
Institution that blind children are quick to learn the
manual alphabet and talk to those who cannot see
and hear.

The importance of the early education of the blind-
deaf cannot be over-emphasized. It was most fortu-
nate for Madame Galeron, for instance, that she had

MUTED STRINGS 255

acquired the use of language before her affliction
came. It was also fortunate that there was no gap in
her education. If the education of one who has seen
and heard is begun as soon as deafness and blindness
come, a large number of sense impressions may be
retained. If the child has learned to speak the voice
may be preserved. In cases where instruction is de-
ferred too long, the blind-deaf lose initiative and
desire to learn.

Very few of them are especially gifted. The
causes of their affliction have often affected their
minds adversely, but not always. And, from what I
know of tests which have been conducted among
them, I think their sensory equipment is in no way
remarkable. Mine is certainly not.

All my life I have been the subject of tests. People
in the possession of their physical faculties seem to
have a great curiosity to find out how those who lack
one or more senses inform themselves of their sur-
roundings.

The playmates of a blind child love to test his
ability to locate them, to orientate himself in a
strange place and to distinguish objects which they
put into his hands. Children, as a rule, are very
matter-of-fact in their observations. They have not
the inclination, so strong in adults, to exaggerate.
They quite frankly announce that the blind child
didn't hear them when they tiptoed quite close, or

256 MIDSTREAM

that he didn't know Mary from Dorothy at first, or
that he ran into Jimmy when he stood in the middle
of his path. Their observations may be crude; but
certainly they are unprejudiced.

There is a tendency in the grown-up investigator
to believe that a missing sense is compensated for by
a superior capacity of the other senses. The only
superiority there is comes with use and intensive
training. When the eye is empty of light, a greater
necessity is laid upon the remaining senses, and
through the natural process of education they are
strengthened.

I think people do not usually realize what an
extensive apparatus the sense of touch is. It is apt to
be confined in our thoughts to the finger-tips. In
reality, the tactual sense reigns throughout the body,
and the skin of every part, under the urge of necessity,
becomes extraordinarily discriminating. It is ap-
proximately true to say that every particle of the
skin is a feeler which touches and is touched, and the
contact enables the mind to draw conclusions regard-
ing the qualities revealed by tactual sensation, such
as heat, cold, pain, friction, smoothness, and rough-
ness, and the vibrations which play upon the sur-
face of the body.

This sense is the chief medium between me and
the outer world. The hand is the most highly de-
veloped organ of sense. The finger-tips are supplied

MUTED STRINGS 257

with nerves more abundantly than the rest of the
body. But it is not altogether the rich endowment of
nerves that gives the hand its efficiency. The arrange-
ment of the thumb and fingers, also the motions of the
wrist, elbow, and arm enable the hand to accommo-
date itself to many surfaces and contacts.

The exercise of the sense of touch covers a wide
field of sensation. The effort to determine with
scientific accuracy the nature of these sensations
was the object of some experiments which Dr.
Frederick Tilney, professor of neurology at Co-
lumbia University, conducted with me recently.
I wonder if any other individual has been so mi-
nutely investigated as I have been by physicians,
psychologists, physiologists, and neurologists. I can
think of only two kinds of tests I have not undergone.
So far I have not been vivisected or psychoanalyzed.
To scientists I am something to be examined like an
aerolite or a sunspot or an atom! I suppose I owe it
to a merciful Providence that I have not been
separated — actually separated into ions and electrons.
I suppose it is only a matter of time until they will
turn an alpha particle of charged helium into the
dull substance of my body, and knock the nucleus
into a million particles. The only consolation there is
in such a possibility is that it will be very hard for a
taxicab to hit those miniature me's.

My scientific tormentors bring all kinds of instru-

258 MIDSTREAM

ments with long Greek names and strange shapes and
appalling ingenuity. Like diabolical genii they check
off one's faults and little idiosyncrasies, and record
them, so that any gossip may learn them by rote, and
cast them into the eyes of all the world. Like Cassius,
I could weep, thus having my slight equipment dis-
played, until ''they do appear as huge as high
Olympus!"

When the moment of the test arrives you screw
your courage to the sticking point, and await the as-
sault of a score of little fiends which alight upon your
body. With mechanical precision they pinch, prick,
squeeze, press, sting, and buzz. One counts your
breaths, another counts your pulse, another tries if
you are hot or cold, if you blush, if you know when
to cry and laugh, and how fear and anger taste, and
how it feels to swing round and round like a large
wooden top, and if it is pleasant being an electric
battery, and shooting out sparks of lightning — for
fun. Resignedly you permit them to bind your
wrists with rubber cuffs which they inflate, asking,
''Is it tight or loose?" "Oh, no," you answer, "it
doesn't hurt, my arm is quite paralyzed."

Then comes a procession of vibratory tests, tuning
forks, and clashing cymbals. A twin sister of a
vacuum cleaner climbs your back. An orchestra bel-
lows vibrations of the nth degree of pandemonium.
Then comes the little Pallas-aesthesiometer to meas-

MUTED STRINGS 259

ure the number of high, thin vibrations you can feel.

Then your head is screwed into a vise-like instru-
ment, and your fingers and joints are moved up and
down rapidly. You are asked which finger, which
joint is moving, and whether the motion is up or
down. You say whatever comes into your head, and
trust to the instrument to tell the truth.

The tests continue hour after hour, and always a
sense of the untrustworthiness of your sensations is
borne in upon you. There is a monotonous murmur
as the results are read that keep you informed how
short you are falling of what was expected of you.
You are confident before the tests begin that you will
win by a generous margin over people who see and
hear. But the instruments, like your playfellows of
long ago, tell the truth — your sensory capacities are
just like everybody else's. There is nothing extraor-
dinary about you except your handicap. Ruefully
you try to save your face by explaining to your in-
quisitors that your impressions of the world do not
come through the senses alone, but through the
magical medium of imagination and association of
ideas which enter your mind as detached, chaotic
physical experience, and are synchronized into har-
monious entity which is your conception of the
universe.

The kind of instrument I want to see invented is
one which will show what takes place in the mind

26o MIDSTREAM
when we think. Although my account of experiments
I have undergone from time to time is somewhat
flippant, yet I regard them as of great importance,
and I am glad I have had ever so small a share in
researches which are pregnant of results. I believe
that the nature of sensory experience and the con-
cepts derived from them and the process of uniting
these mental ideas with the external world will
ultimately be determined with considerable, if not
complete, accuracy. If it shall turn out that Dr.
Tilney's experiments with me add a jot to the sum
of the world's knowledge on this important subject,
I shall be abundantly repaid for the time and slight
physical discomfort I have contributed. Even if
there were no increase of knowledge, I should still
be the gainer, since the experiments have given me
opportunity to know Dr. Tilney.

I have tried to show in this book that it is possible
to make delightful days out of one's own impressions
and adventures though debarred from the audible,
visible life of the world. My life is ^'a chronicle of
friendship." My friends— all those about me— create
my world anew each day. Without their loving care
all the courage I could summon would not suffice to
keep my heart strong for life. But, like Stevenson, I
know it is better to do things than to imagine them.

No one knows— no one can know— the bitter
denials of limitation better than I do. I am not

MUTED STRINGS 261

deceived about my situation. It is not true that I
am never sad or rebellious ; but long ago I determined
not to complain. The mortally wounded must strive
to live out their days cheerfully for the sake of others.
That is what religion is for — to keep the hearts brave
to fight it out to the end with a smiling face. This
may not be a very lofty ambition, but it is a far cry
from surrendering to fate. But to get the better of
fate even to this extent one must have work and the
solace of friendship and an unwavering faith in God's
Plan of Good.

As I look back over my life, I have the satisfaction
of knowing that I have ''done my little owl." In a
letter to a friend Edward Fitzgerald wrote, "My
grandfather had several parrots of different sorts
and talents: one of them, Billy I think, could only
huff up his feathers in what my grandfather called
an owl fashion; so when company were praising the
more gifted parrots, he would say, 'you will hurt poor
Billy's feelings — come, do your little owl, my dear.'
And so I do my little owl," he concluded, referring
to Tales of the Hall, which he had just completed.
That is how I view my life — I have done my little
owl.

Chapter XVII
VARIED CHORDS

I HAVE to smile when people lament the few con-
tacts I have with life, remembering the prodigality
of interests that is mine through my friends, my
books, through magazines, through travel, through
letters. I have become consciously proud of my rich
possessions because my friends are so prone to pity
me.

Whatever is not in braille I depend upon others to
read to me. Miss Thomson spells out the headlines in
the newspaper at breakfast, between bites, and I
choose what I want to hear. Magazines are read to
me in the same way, either by Miss Thomson or
Mrs. Macy or a friend who happens to be present
who is familiar with the manual alphabet. In this
way I have enjoyed the American Mercury, the
Atlantic Monthly, World's Work, Harper s, and
Punch and many others.

My teacher reads me a large part of the
Nation each week. Its editor, Mr. Oswald Garri-
son Villard, is a man for whom I have the
warmest admiration. He is one of the last editors in

America whose name is as well known as that of his

262

VARIED CHORDS 263

paper. He gives out light as well as heat. He is never
tongue-tied by authority, nor does he gild the in-
justices of society to placate anyone. He never departs
from the realities of love, faith, and personal liberty.
I like to think what a high standard American jour-
nalism would have if there were more editors like
Mr. Villard.

Articles in all these magazines are constantly being
reprinted in our braille magazines, which I some-
times think are superior to the magazines for the
seeing. The editors of the ink-print magazines are
most generous in giving permission for the use of
their material. Not once has it been refused, and
since our editors are able to choose the best, our
magazines are freer from trivialities. But they are,
of course, subject to the same limitations as those of
the seeing. They are limited by the capacity of the
readers.

Besides my braille magazines I have many friends
who write to me in braille and other friends who
have their letters copied for me. I especially enjoy
reading letters with my fingers. They seem more my
own than when people spell them to me. When I
was a member, the Massachusetts Commission for the
Blind used to have all its reports embossed for me, and
the American Foundation for the Blind has its bulle-
tins, special letters, and communications transcribed
now.

264 MIDSTREAM

One of my friends, Edna Porter, took a braille
tablet on a cruise around the world so as to send me
iivord pictures of places and people she thought would
interest me. Using a braille tablet, for one who is not
accustomed to it, is a laborious process, and exasper-
atingly slow. Every letter must be pricked out with
a stiletto — not an occupation for a tourist, one would
think.

Most of her missives came in the form of postcards,
on which she punched snatches of song, stories, witty
descriptions of funny situations she encountered.
Thus I have been able to share her adventures.

I shiver with her when she hears the crunching of
icebergs in the Atlantic Ocean. I stand with her in
Kensington Gardens. I fly with her across the Chan-
nel, "a tiny black dot high, high in the blue sky."

I walk through Paris. I stand before the statue
called ^'Blind" in front of the Luxembourg. I bow
my head in Notre Dame at a special mass for the
Unknown Soldier.

I visit Sarah Bernhardt's granite monument on
the isle of her whaler ancestors. I skip through Ger-
many. I dawdle through Venice "with a full moon
and the gondolier singing, and the houses gliding
past."

I stand in the Coliseum. I stand before Vesuvius.
I journey eastward.
At last I reach the Ganges and listen to the weird

VARIED CHORDS 265

notes, *'0m, om, om," of the song of hallowed waters.
I visit the Taj Mahal. I am off to China where I
watch the Mandarins riding past. I reach Japan in
time for the Cherry Blossom Dance! ''How the petals
fall like cascades of snow, while the temple bell rings
sweet and low, and people go to the shrines to pray.
Oh, look! there go women with babies on their backs
and men in kimonos down the street klop-klop-klop,
in wooden shoes with heels four inches high."

Whether she is writing or talking Edna seems
always to be saying, "Fm glad I love the human
race. I'm glad I like the silly way it talks, and I'm
glad I think it's jolly good fun."

The friend who does more than any other to keep
me in touch with the world of science is Edward L.
Holmes. I have known him since I was at the Oilman
School for Young Ladies in Cambridge and he was
a student of architecture at the Massachusetts Insti-
tute of Technology. He was the first Californian I
had met, and it seemed to me that he was talking to
me over the Oolden Oate. Afterwards I visited in his
home in California and had many delightful trips
with him around San Francisco. Now he lives in
New York and I see him very often.

Ships and lighthouses have always had an irre-
sistible lure for him. For more than twenty years he
has had in mind a master mariner's compass elec-
trically harnessed to operate automatic navigation

266 MIDSTREAM

apparatus, and for ten years he has worked unceas-
ingly in developing it.

The brotherhood of the sea tell us that no man
may touch the magnetic compass aboard ship, yet
throughout the ages men have v^anted to do this
because it is in man's nature to strive to do that v^hich
other men say he shall not do. The navigators de-
clared that anyone who meddled with the magnetic
compass would destroy the governing spirit of the
ship, for it is the divine shepherd of ships — the hand
that drives them in ocean channels and brings them
safe to the harbour. Mr. Holmes thought otherwise.
Long years he studied the duties and idiosycrasies of
compasses and decided that the magnetic compass
could be induced to look at an electric current with-
out losing its head. The brotherhood of the sea looked
at my friend with supercilious disdain. Some of them
said, "Other fools have thought they knew more than
their creator." My friend looked at the compass and
the compass looked back at him, each gauging the
other's capacity for overcoming and resisting. He
has told me many times how he learned the secret of
getting the magnetic compass to act naturally in the
presence of an electrically charged wire. Patiently
he talked down to my level until he became convinced
that I really wanted to know about his compass.
Then we talked as men together, each too interested

■ ^

VARIED CHORDS 267

to think about anything except the subject in hand,
and that subject was compasses — the Kelvin compass,
the Ritchie compass, the gyro compass, and his mas-
ter magnetic compass. In connection with his compass
Mr. Holmes has developed an instrument which he
calls a path and position indicator. It is an uncanny
contrivance to keep a check upon the usual method
of ascertaining a ship's position in relation to its
course. It possesses the attributes of a super-watch-
dog. It gives instant warning to the man on the bridge
if the ship strays the least bit from the set course and
enables him to bring the vessel back to that course.
Tirelessly it watches every movement of the great
ship. This clever instrument, in addition to saving
time and fuel, does away with all guessing on the
part of the helmsman and increases the safety of
navigation as well.

In these days when the names and sayings and
doings of millionaires, titled foreigners, and crimi-
nals are dinned into the public ear, a man of real
achievement like Mr. Holmes is likely to be passed
over by the ministers of publicity. It is reassuring,
however, to know that Mr. Holmes, the inventor of
the Holmes Master Compass and Position Indicator,
is safe in the impregnable stronghold of time.

With such friends as Edna and Mr. Holmes I have
no sense at all of limitations, but when I am with a
group, especially if strangers are among them, I very

268 MIDSTREAM
much miss not being able to join in their conversa-
tion.

During the gaps when I am left alone I amuse
myself by observing the callers. There is nothing
about me to put them on their guard, and I find I
can, or imagine I can, substitute myself for the visi-
tor. If he is dull I know it by the parts of his con-
versation that are repeated to me. If he is fidgety I
can tell by the behaviour of his feet and hands and
by the small vibrations that come to me when he
laughs to cover his embarrassment.

I know when callers are pleasant by a sort of
spiritual freemasonry. If a woman is sitting beside
me, and I read her lips, I at once notice the friendli-
ness or the animation of her face and the little name-
less motions of head and hand that give colour and
emphasis to her words, and I observe her mood, gay
or grave. If she is seated at a distance from me, Mrs.
Macy or Miss Thomson interprets for me, and the
alertness of their spelling, (and they do not al-
ways spell what people think they do) enables
me to form an impression of my caller. If she
smiles, I am told ; if she speaks of something with
much feeling, a quick pressure on my hand prepares
me to fall in with her mood. Usually, however, after
her first or second call she talks to me herself.

My life has been rich in friends. I can hardly
mention anything I have done without bringing in

VARIED CHORDS 269

the name of one. A friend who all through my life
has held out a helping hand to me whenever I came
to a special difficulty is Mrs. William Thaw. She
was overburdened with claims on her benevolence,
yet she never failed to contribute generously to every
movement in which I took part — the saving of human
eyes, the raising of funds for the European soldiers
blinded in the World War, and the work of the
American Foundation for the Blind. Even when she
learned I had become a Socialist, she did not with-
draw her friendship and financial help. She
used to plead with me not to let fanatics
preach their crazy theories through me; but
the temper of her mind was such that while
she abhorred my radicalism she cherished me. It was
at Mrs. Thaw's that Dr. John Brashear used to tell
me of his work — how the great telescopes were made.
He showed me how they were polished with the palm
of the hand, and showed me his hands scored with
many arduous endeavours! He would talk of his
goings and comings among the observatories where
his glasses were, and the stars he had seen through
the lenses he fashioned. "In my thoughts there are
obscurities," he would say, "but the lenses I have
wrought are as transparent as light."

Mr. Frank Doubleday, or Effendi, as he lets me
call him, has been a friend of mine since my college
days. Twenty-five years ago, when the House of

Tjo MIDSTREAM

Doubleday was just starting out, he published The
Story of My Life. It is pleasant to realize that he
has continued his interest in my literary work all
these years. More than anyone else he is responsible
for this book. For more than a decade he has urged
me to bring the story of my life up to date, and I am
vividly conscious of his kind hand and friendly
encouragement as I write.

John Morley says in his Recollections that "the
great publisher is a sort of Minister of Letters, and
is not to be without the qualities of a statesman.''
These qualities I think Effendi has. A publisher's
life is colourful of the past, rich in memories of
noted people who were his friends. Effendi's life, in
retrospect, must look good to him, full of hard work
iand fine achievement, of success and friends, of public
honour and affection and happiness.

Effendi's brother, Mr. Russell Doubleday, is an-
other whose name it is delightful to associate with
the writing of this book. With what charming kind-
nesses he has put fresh zest into my tasks when I
called loud and long for my thoughts, and they
would not come! On one occasion when I had waited
long for an idea he invited me to visit the beautiful
gardens which surround the plant in Garden City
where this book is to be printed. After I had wan-
dered a while among the roses and evergreens my
thoughts came bounding to me like a dog at call.

VARIED CHORDS 271

Greatly refreshed, I returned home and finished a
chapter that evening.

For twenty years I have missed the warm handclasp
of my Pflegevater, Mr. Hitz. His football is death-
muted, but other Swedenborgian friends walk with
me, Mr. Paul Sperry, Mr. Clarence Lathbury, Mr.
C. W. Barron, and Mr. George Warren of Boston.
There are radiant moments when I feel the beams of
spiritual kinship that occasionally shine upon the
yearning soul. I had this experience last May when
I spoke at the convention of the New Jerusalem
Church in Washington. I shall always be deeply
moved when I recall how beautifully they welcomed
me— the fragrant flowers they showered upon me,
the lovely music that floated around me while the
hymn was played, ^'O Love That Will Not Let Me
Go," and the affection with which the people sur-
rounded me, like one family.

I have already spoken of Mr. and Mrs. Charles
White. It was through them that I met Max Hein-
rich.

Mr. White had often spoken of him. "Max is a
romantic figure," he would say. ''He has been one of
the greatest favourites of his time in the musical
world. He is old now, but interesting still. If he likes
you, his charm is irresistible."

"Do you think he will like us?" I ventured. "Max's
likes are not predictable," Mr. White answered ; "but

MIDSTREAM

send him an invitation to come out with me, and see
what happens."

Max came, and liked us so well he spent several
days at our house, and came afterwards many times.
Frequently I lunched or dined with him in New
York at Luchow's.

I fell immediately under his spell. He was an old
man, but I felt as if he were a princely youth, so
chivalrous was his homage. He has been dead for
years, and in the interim my life has been crowded
with friendships, but I have not forgotten his im-
perious, intense, lovable, whimsical personality.

Like a great book he created a new world wherever
he went. Max was not a happy man, yet he had known
all the happiness mortals can experience. His unrest,
charm, and wilfulness were temperamental, and the
source of his joy and his misery. More than most
men, he seized for himself the privilege of doing as
he liked, and others less audacious got out of the way
of his magnificent impudence.

He had been a dazzling success on the concert
stage but sang very little when I knew him, being
sensitive, and realizing that his voice was no longer
what it had been. But sometimes he would take me
into the sitting room and sing for me some of the
songs that had made him famous. He would half sing
and half recite "Enoch Arden" to a beautiful ac-
companiment, while I kept one hand on the piano,

VARIED CHORDS 273

and the fingers of my other hand on his lips. He used
to say cynically, ''I still have my triumphs, Charlie.
The blind and deaf find me magnificent." Every
time he went away, I felt the disappointment of a
child who finishes a book and cries for something
more to follow.

It was a cold day in February, 1912, that Georgette
Le Blanc (Mme. Maeterlinck) came out to Wrent-
ham to bring me, she said, greetings from Maurice
Maeterlinck. She was singing 'Telleas and Meli-
sande" in the Boston opera that winter. She was
animated and confiding, and to my touch beautiful.
Her gayety of heart and her lively interest in many
subjects carried us over the difficulties of communi-
cating in French. After she returned to France she
sent me a card on which Maeterlinck had written
^'My greetings and love to the girl who has found
the Bluebird."

I met Signora Montessori on two occasions while
she was lecturing in America. The first time was in
Boston, the second in San Francisco during the Pan-
American Exposition when a great meeting was held
to celebrate educational achievement. Signora
Montessori and Mrs. Macy and many others spoke,
and Signora Montessori paid my teacher a beautiful
tribute, the memory of which thrills me with
happiness.

In conversation Signora Montessori talked with

274 MIDSTREAM

charming vivacity in Italian and a lovely young lady
interpreted what she said. She was interested to learn
that her system and Mrs. Macy's were much alike.
She spoke of the attitude of the Church in Italy to-
wards education and freedom of thought, and the
blighting effects of poverty upon childhood. She de-
clared that school life should be an adventure, the
child spirit must be free. ''I would not bind it even
to the feet of God."

Another worker among the children of the poor
whom I like to recall is Miss Margaret Macmillan
of London. She told me that my teacher's method had
been a wellspring of beneficence to thousands of un-
fortunate children in England. She herself had made
use of it among the children in her care.

It is many years now since Judge Lindsey first
greeted me in Denver. He had just come from a
meeting where he had advocated a mother's pension
law. He was very much excited and poured out his
indignation at the stupid indifference of society.
^'Here we are, huddling children into homes and
nurseries and paying strangers to look after them,
while the mothers take care of other people's chil-
dren and homes. Wouldn't you think any intelligent
citizen would see that it would be more sensible to
pay the mothers for taking care of their own
children?"

He said he knew he had a hard fight ahead, but I

VARIED CHORDS 275
doubt if Judge Lindsey himself knew just how hard
it was going to be. People said he was crazy when he
took the part of bad boys against the police and said
that they should have a court of their own. But he
established such a court, and people came from all
over the world to see how it was managed. Public
playgrounds and public baths came as a result of his
dreams. Old laws were changed and better ones made,
as he recommended, and these things are only a small
part of what he has done for the good of his
country.

I cannot help wishing that so many of my friend-
ships did not have to be conducted by correspondence.
I have letters that I treasure from John Burroughs,
William Dean Howells, Dr. Richard Cabot, Carl
Sandburg, and others. The only personal contact I
had with Eugene Debs was through letters. I heard
of him first in connection with the Great Northern
Strike in 1894, but it was not until I was a woman
of thirty that I began to understand the significance
of the liberating movement for which he stood.

He needs no defence among those who know his
v^ork, but there are many who have not yet learned to
appreciate him justly. He was a working man, but he
succeeded in making himself master of the culture
of the dominant class. Gentle, modest, refined, a
lover of books and of beauty, he chose to be the
champion of the despised cause of the poor. He at-

276 MIDSTREAM

tacked the rule of the strong and the system of private
property, and always he was in earnest, terribly in
earnest. He never doubted the righteousness of his
mission, or that his cause would win in the end, as
surely as the sun lights the sky. He summed up the
whole philosophy of life in these words, which are
inscribed on my heart:

Your Honour, years ago I recognized my kinship with all living
beings, and I made up my mind that I was not one bit better
than the meanest of the earth. I said then, and I say now, that
while there is a lower class, I am in it ; while there is a criminal
element, I am of it ; while there is a soul in prison, I am not free.

Most of my contact with La Follette was with
letters to him or his family. I met him — I think it
was in the spring of 1905— when my mother and I
were in Washington, and Mr. Hitz was showing us
the Capitol. He saw the Senator coming out of one
of the committee rooms, his hands full of papers.
Mr. Hitz knew him only by sight, but, thinking it
would be pleasant for my mother and me to meet
him, spoke to him and introduced me. Mr. La Fol-
lette greeted us in gentle perplexity, wondering who
we were. When, however, Mr. Hitz repeated my
name, he responded, "Yes, yes, I know," and shook
my hand again saying, "When people meet you, I
am sure they always shake hands twice."

VARIED CHORDS 277

When he had said good-bye, Mr. Hitz remarked,
"That's a fighter. They say here in Washington that
if there were two ways of getting a man to cross the
street, one to invite him over and the other to take
him by the collar, La Follette would take him by
the collar."

When I came to know Senator La Follette better,
I regarded him as Woodrow Wilson did, "a lonely
figure climbing the mountain of privileges," stead-
fastly serving the interests of the American people.
Yet in another sense he was not lonely. Never did a
man have a more devoted family. His wife fought
side by side with him in his political battles. His son,
who is now in the Senate, told me recently that from
their earliest years he and his sisters were permitted
to be present at the family councils. As they grew up
they joined their father's forces and upheld his noble
principles.

Shortly after I began campaigning for the Ameri-
can Foundation for the Blind I received a contribu-
tion for the work inclosed in a delightful letter signed
Jedediah Tingle. I did not know until last year that
Jedediah Tingle was Mr. William Harmon. In the
second letter, which was signed with his own name,
he wrote that he would open to the blind a series of
awards for creative achievements in the various fields
of education, craftsmanship, art, public endeavour
and industrial relationships. "I want to do this," he

278 MIDSTREAM

said, "for those who are handicapped so that they
may know the ambition and joy which come, not only
from achievement itself, but also for the occupational
effort to achieve." Out of his generosity and sympathy
Mr. Harmon radiated the beneficence that really
helps because those whom it assists are enabled to
help themselves.

Many people whose visits it is delightful to re-
member have called upon us here in Forest Hills.
Sir Richard Paget, who sees in the science of
phonetics a way of improving speech; Mr. Akiba,
who is head of the School for the Blind in Tokio;
Miss Betty Hirsch of Berlin, a sightless worker in
the rehabilitation of blinded German soldiers; Dr.
James Kerr Love, a distinguished aural surgeon of
Glasgow, greatly interested in the education of deaf
children; Countee Cullen, the negro poet, whose
poems Edna Porter has copied in braille for me.

A comrade in the dark who lives far away now
but used to visit me often is Elizabeth Garrett. When
books began to appear about the thrilling adventures
of Elizabeth's father, Pat Garrett, the famous sheriff
of New Mexico, and the hairbreadth escapes of
"Billy the Kid," I felt as one might if somebody took
liberties with his family. For Elizabeth has told me
so much about her father and "the kid" that they
seemed to belong to me somehow.

Elizabeth has been blind since she was born, but

VARIED CHORDS 279
she has her father's free spirit. Even as a child she
was perfectly fearless. She rode horses bareback
without anyone to accompany her, and gave her
family many anxious moments, especially when she
took it into her wilful head to ride wild horses. One
day she swung herself to the back of an unbroken
pony which belonged to one of her father's young
deputy sheriffs. The pony flew down the road. No
one could stop him. Miles and miles he ran until
he was worn out. When he slowed down Elizabeth
slipped off and sat calmly down by the roadside and
waited for her father. With the same unconquered
spirit she is still seeking adventures in the dark.
No danger or hardship can hold her back. She
is one of the few blind people who travels about the
country alone. When she goes to a city where she is
likely to have difficulty, she writes to the station mas-
ter telling on what train she will arrive, and asking
him please to have a porter meet her. Not once has
the porter failed to be on hand.

Elizabeth has a lovely voice and a talent for com-
posing her own songs. She has written the state song
of New Mexico, which is my favourite among her
compositions. It breathes of the wild flowers she has
gathered, the mountains she has climbed, and the un-
confined frolic of the winds upon the mesas of her
romantic homeland. She used often to spend the
week-end with us while she was studying singing in

28o MIDSTREAM
New York, and there was no happier hour than when
we gathered about her in the twilight. She always
asked me to stand beside her with my hand on her
throat. ''I can't bear to have you left out, dear," she
would spell, "and I feel I can sing better if you
'hear' me." Sometimes we accompanied her when
she gave recitals in towns around New York, and she
always insisted that I listen to her just as I did at
home.

She is ever ready to go wherever she might bring
cheer to the sick, the sorrowful, and the lonely. One
day she visited Sing Sing prison and sang for the
men. Not long afterwards I was deeply touched to
read in the Ziegler Magazine for the Blind a poem
which one of the prisoners addressed to her. I will
quote the first verse :

Fools, they! They call her blind!

They call her blind, yet can she lead

A thousand soul-sick men

From cold gray stones and make them heed

The song of wind and rain.

From gloomy cell to dewy mead,

To sun and stars and sky,

And show the message all can read

Of love and peace and hope.

I met Elizabeth through another blind friend,
Nina Rhoades, whose father, John Harsen Rhoades,

VARIED CHORDS 281
used to try to teach me a little practical sense in my
young days. I was not a very apt pupil ; but he was
always patient with me.

I very often visited the Rhoadeses at their home in
New York and their country house at Seabright,
Tsf. J. Miss R. knew the manual alphabet, and we
had many long talks about books and people we
knew, or would like to know. She had many delight-
ful books which her friends copied for her in N. Y.
Point that could not be obtained from any library.
With what delight I read Goethe's Iphigenia, Daniel
Deronda, Nathan the Wise and The Casting Away
of Mrs. Leeks and Mrs. Aleshine. Nina Rhoades her-
self is a writer of charming stories for girls. She used
to write them out in Point, and sometimes I had the
pleasure of reading them before they were published.

She has a captivating personality, and I loved the
way we used to laugh and argue the summer hours
away on the upper piazza of her Seabright home.
Every now and then our discussions were interrupted
by great breakers which leapt the bulkhead and flung
wreaths of white spray in our faces.

It was through her also that I met Sir Arthur
Pearson, founder of St. Dunstan's Hostel for the
blinded soldiers in London.

When Rabindranath Tagore visited America, he
came out to see me, accompanied by a number of
friends and admirers. He was tall and stately. His

282 MIDSTREAM

long gray hair and beard mingling together gave
him the appearance of an ancient prophet. Serene,
gracious, he saluted me in a monotone, almost like a
prayer. I told him I was pleased to meet him because
I had read his poems, and I knew that he loved
humanity. shall have cause for rejoicing," he
said gently, ''if my writings reflect my love of
man. . . . The world is waiting for men who love
God and their fellow creatures and not them-
selves."

After the Stately One had seated himself in the
centre of a circle of friendly and reverent listeners,
he talked of poetry, of India and China and the
power of the spirit that alone can bring freedom. He
spoke sadly of the war clouds hovering over the
world. "The West is trying to thrust opium down the
throat of China, and non-compliance by the Chinese
means taking possession of their country, and Asia
doth prepare weapons in her armouries, and her tar-
get is to be the heart of Europe, and nests are being
built on the shores of the Pacific for the vulture-
ships of England. Japan, the farthest East, is already
awake. China will rouse herself when the robbers
break through her walls. ... Yet love of self can
have no other destination than self-destruction. Love
of God is our only fulfilment. It has in it the ulti-
mate solution of all problems and all difficulties."

I could not help thinking of Gandhi, who not only

VARIED CHORDS 283
hears this message of love, but also teaches it and
lets it shine in his deeds before all men.

It was not until we came to Forest Hills to live
that I made the acquaintance of Art Young, though
for years Mr. Macy had described his cartoons to me
as they appeared in Life, in The Liberator, The
Nation, and The Masses,

One day when we were returning from a camp-
ing trip in New England, we passed through Bethel,
Connecticut. Edna remarked, ^'Art Young lives near
here." We easily found his quaint little house on the
side of the road, with a giant pine tree in front of it,
and morning glories running wild everywhere; and
we found Art Young in the living room, drawing pic-
tures of ''trees at night" for the Saturday Evening
Post. I told him that Mrs. Macy also saw things in
trees at twilight— animals and human beings. After
supper we sat on the doorsteps in the semi-darkness
and they searched the trees for the goblins and dry-
ads that inhabit them.

It was my privilege not long ago to have a call
from Dr. Watson, Dr. Bell's assistant in the in-
vention of the telephone. The nobility of his char-
acter reveals itself in every movement. I believe there
is a parallel between a man's accomplishment and his
character. His work is a visible sign of his spirit.
Some such thoughts passed through my brain as I
talked with Dr. Watson. There was the consciousness

284 MIDSTREAM
of a self unified as in a work of art. There was
the strong, skilful hand that had subdued the electric
current and won a victory over matter ; and there he
sat, modest, gentle, radiating kindly interest and
heightening the effect by reciting Browning's noble
words :

He placed thee amid this plastic dance of circumstance

Thou wouldst forsooth deem arrested —

This machinery but meant

To give thy soul its bent

And turn thee out sufficiently impressed.

Every Sunday since I have been in Forest Hills a
number of. little neighbours run in after Sunday
school. They bound into my study like a burst of
sunshine. One of them kicks the big stone which
keeps my door from slamming; another spoils the
letter I am writing by pushing down the keys of the
typewriter at random; they scatter my braille notes
all over the floor. They open my file and rummage
among the papers. They are mischief incarnate, but I
adore them. Their teasing, their laughter, and their
sprawling affection keep me young for the spring-
time of Heaven.

Many artists whose appeal is directed to the eye or
ear have tried to project their art beyond the dark
curtain of sense for my entertainment. When I was a
young girl Ellen Terry, Sir Henry Irving, and

Photo, by Nicholas Muray, N. Y.

Miss Keller ''listening' to the violin of Edwin Grasse.

VARIED CHORDS 285

Joseph Jefferson assumed for me characters which
they had made famous and I followed with breath-
less interest their gestures and changes of expression.
My fingers have traced the mobile lines of David
Warfield's face and felt the youth and charm of
Jane Cowl's Juliet. With my fingers on his lips,
Caruso poured his golden voice into my hand. Cha-
liapin shouted the Russian folk song with his strong
arm encircling me so that I could feel every
vibration. I knew his tone of defiance, the great
peasant laugh, and the passion of the multitude. He
also sang the Volga Boat Song, and I sensed its sad,
haunting notes, the resignation and sustained effort
of strong men who believe we must pull together.

I was present in Detroit at one of Gabrilowitsch's
concerts. I sat so close to the orchestra and the vibra-
tions carried so wonderfully in that resonant audi-
torium that I seemed to swim on a flood of harmony.

Two blind men who have played for me, they tell
me, are gifted violinists, Abraham Haitovitch and
Edwin Grasse. Mr. Grasse accompanied me in the
campaign for the American Foundation for the
Blind, and audiences everywhere received him with
glorious enthusiasm. Recently the Brooklyn Institute
of Arts and Sciences chose Mr. Grasse as its organist,
guaranteeing him good remuneration, and in October
he will begin giving three recitals a week.

When we were in Denver during one of my

286 MIDSTREAM

vaudeville tours Heifetz played for me. My fingers
rested lightly on his violin. At first the bow moved
softly over the strings, as if the master were ques-
tioning the Spirit of Music what he should play for
one who could not hear. The bow fluttered. From the
sensitive instrument there came a tremulous, far-
away murmur. Was it the faint rumour of the wings
of birds? Each delicate note alighted on my finger-
tips like thistledown. They touched my face, my
hair, like kisses remembered and love-lit smiles. Im-
material, transient as the sigh of evening winds, the
violet breath of dawn. Are they rose petals dropped
from a fairy's hand, or wordless desires born in the
heart?

There is a change of mood. The bow is lifted to the
point of radiant flight. The melody rises like Shel-
ley's skylark climbing the air with voice and wing
challenging immensity. One is sad without knowing
why. The song is joyous, and yet nowhere is there a
loneliness so great as the little bird in that vast dome
of light, for the moment the only actuality in the
universe, yet so slight a thing, a glimmering echo of
thought, a passionate prayer, a dauntless faith in
things unseen.

I think it was Schumann's ''Song of Moonlight"
that Heifetz played.

Godowsky, too, has played for me. With my hands
on the piano while he played one of Chopin's

VARIED CHORDS 287

Nocturnes, I was transported on a magic carpet to a
tropical island in one of Conrad's mysterious seas.

Sometimes I have listened to concerts over the
radio, placing my fingers lightly on a resonant
board. Lovely to my touch is the music of
different instruments — the harp, the cornet, the
oboe, the deep-voiced viola, the violin in all its
singing moods and the triumphing, blending har-
mony of all in a chorus of sweet vibrations! Always
one voice seems to leap from the deep surge and
fling its notes like flower petals blown by the wind.

The fiire music in 'The Valkyrie" spreads exultant
flames through the orchestra, now curling upward
swift and shrill, now clamouring against the sky
and now rolling back to earth Brunhilde's bitter
fate.

Jazz has a bombarding sensation not pleasant to
the touch, and it is disturbing to the emotions. When
it is continued for some time, I have a wild impulse
to flee from something sinister that is about to spring
upon me. I suppose it wakens primal emotions —
quenchless fears of things wild-eyed and savage . . .
shadow memories . . . gigantic creatures . . .
sons and daughters of the jungle ... the cry of
dumb souls not yet able to speak.

I have several times been presented at the Ameri-
can Court of Industry. I have talked with men who

288

MIDSTREAM

have more power than almost any monarch of his-
tory. Some of these men have been my friends, others
I have only met in passing. One of the first of my
friends among the Kings of Industry was Mr. John
Spaulding, about whom I have already written. An-
other who came early into my life was Mr. H. H.
Rogers, who made it possible for me to go to Rad-
clifife College. I first met him one afternoon at Mrs.
Lawrence Hutton's when he called with Mark
Twain. Shortly afterwards Mrs. Rogers invited Miss
Sullivan and me to dinner at their beautiful home in
New York. We saw both Mr. and Mrs. Rogers
frequently up to the time of their death. Whenever
we passed through New York we saw them, they
both called upon us when I was in college, and Mr.
Rogers came to see us at Wrentham.

One of the most delightful visits we ever
had with him was after my teacher's marriage,
when he invited the three of us to Fairhaven,
where he was spending the summer with his
daughter, Mrs. Coe, and his grandchildren. We
took a glorious sail on his beautiful yacht, the
Kanawaha, and I loved the steady, swift motion and
the flying spray. Most interestingly, Mr. Rogers de-
scribed the coast and islands we passed. He was so
pleased that Mrs. Macy could see more distinctly
through his field-glasses that he presented them to
her. A delicious luncheon was served on board, after

VARIED CHORDS 289
which Mr. Rogers insisted that we must take a nap ;
but bless his heart! we could not sleep when there
was so much to see. We had never been on a private
yacht before. I had to pinch myself every little while
to see if I was awake or dreaming. Just as the sun
went down the Kanawaha floated up to her pier like
a huge white swan. Mr. Rogers's automobile Was
waiting for us. There were to be other guests at din-
ner, and it was a scramble to get dressed in time.

After dinner we sat round the fire and chatted.
Mr. Rogers talked naturally and simply on whatever
subject came up. At that time Mr. Lawson was at-
tacking him in Everybody's Magazine. Mr. Rogers
denied that the reported conversations between him-
self and Mr. Lawson had any foundation in fact. We
talked of Mark Twain, and Mr. Rogers chuckled
over some of his drolleries. We also spoke of Mrs.
Rogers, who was at Dublin, New Hampshire, at the
time. Mr. Rogers said she had one fault, she was
always giving his old clothes away, so that when he
wanted to go fishing he had nothing suitable to wear.
Frequently Mr. Rogers and I did not agree on sub-
jects of public interest, but I always liked to talk
with him. He was always noble in bearing and win-
ning in manner. Mark Twain said that he was "the
best-bred gentleman I have met on either side of the
ocean in any rank of life from the Kaiser of Ger-
many down to the bootblack."

2go MIDSTREAM

Next to Mr. Spaulding and Mr. Rogers, Mr.
Carnegie did most to uphold my hands in what I
wanted to do. It was the year that I met Mr. Car-
negie that I met another royal personage in the king-
dom of industry — Mr. Thomas A. Edison. He asked
me to visit him when I was lecturing in East Orange,
New Jersey.

He seemed to me a man of many idiosyncrasies
and moods. Mrs. Edison told me that he often stayed
all night in his laboratory. When he became inter-
ested in a problem nothing else existed for him and
he was annoyed when someone interrupted him to
tell him it was dinner time.

He asked me very particularly what I could feel
when I placed my hands on a victrola. When I told
him that I could not make out words he tried to
focus the sounds under a high silk hat. Vibrations
were stronger under the hat, but the sounds were not
defined.

He told me he thought deafness was an advantage
to him. "It is like a high wall around me which ex-
cludes distractions and leaves me free to live at peace
in my own world."

I said, "If I were a great inventor like you, Mr.
Edison, I would invent an instrument that would
enable every deaf person to hear."

"You would, would you?" he retorted. "Well, I

VARIED CHORDS 291

think it would be a waste of time. People say so little
that is worth listening to."

I tried to make him understand me by putting my
mouth close to his ear. He said my voice was very
unpleasant— like steam exploding, and that he got
only the consonants. ^'Get Mrs. Macy to tell me what
you have to say," he commanded, ^'her voice is like
velvet."

"The trouble with people is," he remarked, "they
are all alike. I doubt if their parents could tell them
apart when they grow up."

"They are not alike to me," I said. "Everyone
has a particular person-odour different from every-
body else's."

"That may be," he said, "I never noticed it."

It was on a lecture tour also that I first met Mr.
Ford. We stopped for a few days in Detroit on our
way home from Nebraska, where I had been speak-
ing against preparedness. I expressed a wish to visit
the Ford motor plant, and if possible to meet the
great organizer of that industry. Accordingly, we
went to the plant in the afternoon. We had to wait
some time before Mr. Ford could see us, but when
he did appear, the pleasure I had in making his
acquaintance was worth waiting for. His handshake
was quiet and full of what I call reserve energy. Mr.
Ford showed us over the plant, and I shall never

292 MIDSTREAM

forget the alertness of his hands that seemed eyes
as he guided my awkward fingers through the in-
tricacies of the huge dynamo which runs the plant.

He talked with pleasant simplicity about his suc-
cess. He told how he had conceived the idea of a car
that the farmers could afford to buy, and then found
out how to make it. "The trouble with many people
who have ideas," he said, "is that they don't know
what to do with them. It is all well to have ideas ; but
what are they worth if one doesn't know how to go
about embodying them in actual service?"

A visit to the Ford plant gives one much to medi-
tate upon. I have tried to imagine what the world
would be like if it were all run like the Ford plant,
with Mr. Ford as world dictator. Many things would
be better. There would be a shorter working day and
higher wages. Mankind would have leisure un-
dreamed of now. Men would spend a part of the day
providing food, clothes, and shelter, and insurance
against old age, and still have four or five hours to
devote to their families, to education, or to recreation.
It would give the workers the economic freedom
which is the starting point of all other freedom.

At first flush the Ford idea looks wonderful. It
seems as if this "hard-headed" business man had
found the high road to Utopia. But memory flashes a
picture on the mind of the thousands of men at the
Ford plant working in perfect unison, like a mar-

VARIED CHORDS 293

vellous mechanism, each man a tiny cog or screw or
shaft in the machine, and one wonders if, when the
machine is dismembered, the human parts will be
capable of enjoying the blessings of Utopia, or will
their brains have become so mummified that they
will prefer to remain parts of the machine?

The year after this visit to Detroit Mr. Ford in-
vited me to be his guest on the Oscar. I declined,
because if I went, I should be obliged to cancel a
number of lecture engagements, and I felt that the
service I might render on such an expedition would
not justify me in disappointing my audiences. It
seemed to me Mr. Ford's significance lay in what
he had accomplished in the field of industry rather
than in international diplomacy. I felt that, had he
brought the same engineer-mind to the affairs of the
world that he did to affairs of his workshop, the
"Peace Ship" would never have sailed.

My next connection with the Ford family came
ten years later, when I was again in Detroit. When I
was speaking for the blind at the memorable meet-
ing which I have already described, Mr. and Mrs.
Henry Ford and Edsel Ford contributed ten
thousand dollars each. I had another pleasant sur-
prise when Mr. Ford informed me that he em-
ployed seventy-three blind men in his plants, not be-
cause he pitied them, but because they were capable
of doing their work efficiently.

294 MIDSTREAM

It is pleasant to record the Fords' interest in the
blind, for sometimes during our campaign we have
been greatly disappointed at the unreadiness of cer-
tain extremely rich people to respond. Mingled with
the fragrance of blossoms, the sweet strains of music,
the gracious hospitality and expressions of kindness
there were tears of regret at the strange contradic-
tions of human nature. Grotesque things sometimes
fall out of fat pocketbooks, but if I went into that
I should stir up a hornet's nest indeed!

Chapter XVIII
I GO ADVENTURING

Cut off as I am, it is inevitable that I should some-
times feel like a shadow walking in a shadowy world.
When this happens I ask to be taken to New York
City. Always I return home weary but I have the
comforting certainty that mankind is real flesh and
I myself am not a dream.

In order to get to New York from my home it is
necessary to cross one of the great bridges that sepa-
rate Manhattan from Long Island. The oldest and
most interesting of them is the Brooklyn Bridge,
built by my friend. Colonel Roebling, but the one I
cross oftenest is the Queensborough Bridge at 59th
Street. How often I have had Manhattan de-
scribed to me from these bridges ! They tell me the
view is loveliest in the morning and at sunset when
one sees the skyscrapers rising like fairy palaces,
their million windows gleaming in the rosy-tinted
atmosphere.

I like to feel that all poetry is not between the
covers of poetry books, that much of it is written in
great enterprises of engineering and flying, that into
mighty utility man has poured and is pouring his

m

296 MIDSTREAM

dreams, his emotions, his philosophy. This mate-
rializing of his genius is sometimes inchoate and
monstrous, but even then sublime in its extravagance
and courage. Who can deny that the Queensborough
Bridge is the v^ork of a creative artist? It never fails
to give me a poignant desire to capture the noble
cadence of its music. To my friends I say:

Behold its liberal loveliness of length — •

A flowing span from shore to shore,

A brimming reach of beauty matched with strength,

It shines and climbs like some miraculous dream,

Like some vision multitudinous and agleam,

A passion of desire held captive in the clasp of vast utility.

New York has a special interest for me v^hen it
is wrapped in fog. Then it behaves very much like a
blind person. I once crossed from Jersey City to
Manhattan in a dense fog. The ferry-boat felt its
way cautiously through the river traffic. More timid
than a blind man, its horn brayed incessantly. Fog-
bound, surrounded by menacing, unseen craft and
dangers, it halted every now and then as a blind man
halts at a crowded thoroughfare crossing, tapping his
cane, tense and anxious.

One of my never-to-be-forgotten experiences was
circumnavigating New York in a boat. The trip took
all day. I had with me four people who could use
the hand alphabet— my teacher, my sister, my niece,
and Mr. Holmes. One who has not seen New York

I GO ADVENTURING 297

in this way would be amazed at the number of people
who live on the water. Someone has called them
"harbour gypsies." Their homes are on boats — whole
fleets of them, decorated with flower boxes and
bright-coloured awnings. It is amusing to note how
many of these stumbling, awkward harbour
gypsies have pretty feminine names — Bella, Flora-
dora, Rosalind, Pearl of the Deep, Minnehaha,
Sister Nell. The occupants can be seen going about
their household tasks — cooking, washing, sewing,
gossiping from one barge to another, and there is a
flood of smells which gives eyes to the mind. The
children and dogs play on the tiny deck, and chase
each other into the water, where they are perfectly
at home. These water-babies are familiar with all
manner of craft, they know what countries they come
from, and what cargoes they carry. There are brick
barges from Holland and fruitboats coming in from
Havana, and craft loaded with meat, cobblestones,
and sand push their way up bays and canals. There
are old ships which have been stripped of their
majesty and doomed to follow tow ropes up and
down the harbour. These ships make me think of old
blind people led up and down the city streets. There
are aristocratic craft from Albany, Nyack, Newburg.
There are also boats from New London and Boston,
from the Potomac and Baltimore and Virginia, from
Portland, Maine, bringing terra cotta to Manhattan.

298 MIDSTREAM

Here comes the fishing fleet from Gloucester hurry-
ing past the barge houses, and crawling, coal-laden
tramps. Tracking the turmoil in every direction are
the saucy ferry boats, bellowing rudely to everyone
to get out of the way.

It is a sail of vivid contrast — up the Hudson be-
tween green hills, past the stately mansions of River-
side Drive, through the narrow straits that separate
Manhattan from the mainland, into Harlem and the
East River, past Welfare Island, where a great mod-
ern city shelters its human derelicts, on to the welter
of downtown docks, where longshoremen heave the
barge cargoes ashore, and the crash of traffic is deaf-
ening, and back to your pier in the moonlight when
the harbour gypsies sleep and the sense of peace is
balm to the tired nerves.

As I walk up Broadway, the people that brush past
me seem always hastening toward a destination they
never reach. Their motions are eager, as if they said,
"We are on our way, we shall arrive in a moment."
They keep up the pace — they almost run. Each on his
quest intent, in endless procession they pass, tragic,
grotesque, gay, they all sweep onward like rain fall-
ing upon leaves. I wonder where they are going. I
puzzle my brain; but the mystery is never solved.
Will they at last come somewhere? Will anybody
be waiting for them? The march never ceases. Their
feet have worn the pavements unevenly. I wish I

I GO ADVENTURING 299
knew where they are going. Some are nonchalant,
some walk with their eyes on the ground, others step
lightly, as if they might fly if their wings were not
bound by the multitude. A pale little woman is guid-
ing the steps of a blind man. His great hand drags
on her arm. Awkwardly he shortens his stride to her
gait. He trips when the curb is uneven; his grip
tightens on the arm of the woman. Where are they
going?

Like figures in a meaningless pageant, they pass.
There are young girls laughing, loitering. They have
beauty, youth, lovers. They look in the shop windows,
they look at the huge winking signs ; they jostle the
crowds, their feet keep time to the music of their
hearts. They must be going to a pleasant place. I
think I should like to go where they are going.

Tremulously I stand in the subways, absorbed into
the terrible reverberations of exploding energy. Fear-
ful, I touch the forest of steel girders loud with the
thunder of oncoming trains that shoot past me like
projectiles. Inert I stand, riveted in my place. My
limbs, paralyzed, refuse to obey the will insistent on
haste to board the train while the lightning steed is
leashed and its reeling speed checked for a moment.
Before my mind flashes in clairvoyant vision what all
this speed portends— the lightning crashing into life,
the accidents, railroad wrecks, steam bursting free
like geysers from bands of steel, thousands of racing

300 MIDSTREAM

motors and children caught at play, flying heroes
diving into the sea, dying for speed — all this because
of strange, unsatisfied ambitions. Another train bursts
into the station like a volcano, the people crov^d me
on, on into the chasm — into the dark depths of av^ful
forces and fates. In a fev^ minutes, still trembling, I
am spilled into the streets.

After the turmoil of the city it is a joy to rush
back to my little garden. My garden is a humble
place — a rustic nook, a hut of green. One friend says
it is more like a nest than a garden. Another calls it
"the philosopher's garden," because it is so v^alled
in on all sides and so narrov^, but at the same time
so high that it reaches the stars. For me it is a shelter
from the bustling w^orld, a place to meditate in, a
sweet, tranquil haunt of birds, bees, and butterflies,
a realm of peace v^here a restless spirit often escapes
from the buffetings of life, a secret confessional where
my besetting sins are repented. It matters not at
v^hat hour I enter my garden, v^hether in the cool
pure dav^n v^hen the golden gates of the sun open,
and the first rustle of leaves stirs to consciousness the
bird in its nest, disperses the mists and dev^s from the
sleeping flov^ers, and each flower uncurls its petals
and lifts its face to the beauty of the day; or in the
noonday, when all the banners of life are unfurled
and the sun's rays turn everything to splendour ; or in

I GO ADVENTURING 301

the magical stillness of evening when shadows steal
across my path with soundless feet, and I sense ''a
folding of a world of wings" and down in the dusk
of the grass fireflies light their glow-lamps, I am
filled with infinite gladness, and my heart sings the
praise of the Creator who out of space and eternity
made this little place for me, and sent the flowers to
be my comforters.

I enjoy my garden in all weathers. Even winter-
time has its own sport and charm for me. As I
walk briskly along, the wind shakes the snow down
upon me from the hedge. Every few minutes I pull
off my gloves to revel in the touch of congealed love-
liness on the trees and bushes — wondrous forms
which God has

Insculped and embossed
With His hammer of wind,
And His graver of frost.

Usually I find the green circle of trees which sur-
rounds my walk without the slightest difficulty by
going from the steps along a cement path that turns
off abruptly at the right, but when the snow is deep
all paths are obliterated, so that there is no uneven-
ness of the ground to guide my feet, and I get com-
pletely lost; but the adventure of blundering into
every place but the right one gives me a good laugh
or two before I successfully orientate myself beside

302 MIDSTREAM

the hedge, and Mark Twain's felicitous words form a
sprightly accompaniment to my steps. For I feel like
Sandy when the Connecticut Yankee asked her,
"Whereabouts does the castle lie? What is the direc-
tion from here?" and she replied, "Ah please you,
sir, it hath no direction from here; by reason that
the road lieth not straight, but turneth evermore;
wherefore the direction of its place abideth not, but
is sometimes under the one sky and anon under an-
other, whereso if ye be minded that it is in the
east, and wend thitherward, ye shall observe that the
way of the road doth yet again turn upon itself by
the space of half a circle. ... It were woundily
hard to tell [the leagues I have walked], they are so
many, and do so lap the one upon the other, and
being made all in the same image and tincted with
the same colour, one may not know the one league
from its fellow, nor how to count them except they be
taken apart."

It is when the book of the year opens at the page
of June that I want to drop my work, whatever it
may be, and enter the Kingdom of Delight. It is then
that Nature receives the spring flowers at her Court,
and each perfect day brings new beauties to grace the
fete.

June,-time within the circle of evergreens that
shields my garden is a wondrous woof of odourS
— evergreens and marsh-grass threaded with the scent

I GO ADVENTURING 303

of lilac and laurel. Bright-hued flowers march be-
side me and hold up lovely faces to me. Where the
grass grows softest, the violets open their blue eyes
and look at me wonderingly. I call them dream
flowers, because I always see them growing in the
Garden of Sleep — violets and lilies of the valley.
The honeysuckle trails over the privet wall, blessing
every breeze with its fragrance. The weigelas reach
out wraithlike arms to embrace me. When I push
them aside to pass, how the winged plunderers of
their sweets scatter in the sunshine ! Tall irises from
Japan and Germany display their exquisite gowns
across the ribbon-like trails which the gardener has
made around the summer house. In one corner of my
garden there is a clump of old-fashioned lilacs. In
June the boughs are weighted with loveliness, and
heart-penetrating odour — oh, nobody has ever put
it into words !

All through May and early June a flaming tide of
tulips spreads over the lawn, with here and there an
island of daffodils and hyacinths. If I touch one of
them, lo, a lily is born in my hands! As far as my
arms can reach, the same miracle has been wrought.
Love, which fulfils itself in giving life, has taken
possession of my Eden.

One day a few summers ago two robins decided
to live in my dogwood tree, which was all tremulous
with white blossoms. It is one of the trees which bor-

304 MIDSTREAM

der my green circle. Morning and evening, as I pass
it again and again, I reach up to touch the branches.
The robins went about the business of life with
singleness of purpose. They did not seem to mind me.
At first, when I put up my hand to touch the
branches, they would fly off to a near-by tree and
watch me attentively, but they soon became accus-
tomed to me. I brought them food and in my awk-
ward human way tried to tell them I was a friend,
and had no evil intentions toward them. They seemed
to understand ; anyway, they came and were quite in-
different to my doings. I would stand perfectly still
for a long time with my hand on the branch, and
often I was rewarded by feeling the leaves quiver
and the twigs bend ever so slightly. Once I sensed
a commotion very close to my hand, and a few days
later I felt a tiny claw pinch my finger. It was not
many days before the male bird lit squarely upon my
hand, and after that there was perfect understanding
between us. A bird doesn't stay long on one's hand
without saying something. My new bird-friend be-
gan to twitter; he hopped back and forth on the
branch, telling his mate about me, I suppose. When
the eggs were hatched, she came way out on the
branch to take a good look at me. She must have con-
cluded that I was harmless, for she flew away on a
foraging expedition, leaving her little ones at my
mercy.

I GO ADVENTURING 305

Toward the end of the summer Elizabeth Garrett
came to see me. We were chatting in my study. A
thunderstorm came up suddenly, and the rain began
to beat in. Elizabeth went to close the windows. As
she did so, she heard a plaintive bird-cry, and, catch-
ing my hand, drew me to the window. ^'I believe,"
she said, "a bird is beating its wings against the
screen." It was difficult in the rain to raise the screen ;
but we succeeded, and there, clinging to the vines
which had clambered over the sill, was my little
Robin Hood ! He fluttered into my outstretched hand.
He was limp and dripping wet. After he dried off
a bit, he began to fly about the room, scrutinizing
everything with his inquisitive little eyes. When the
shower ceased, we took him to the window, but he
did not seem to want to leave us. His sharp claws
pinched my finger, he tilted his body, as though he
would say, "I am satisfied, why do you want me to
go?" I put him down on the sill, and he flew back
into the room. We managed to catch him, and again
I put him outside the screen, and again he flew back
into the study. This time he hid under the couch, and
we could not find him. We had to get someone with
eyes to dig him out. He hopped on the windowsill
from one side to the other, cocking his head this
way and that, soliloquizing, I thought. "Oh, which
do I prefer? Do I prefer you or yonder tree? Shall
I stay here, or go on and on, away, away, away? Oh,

3o6 MIDSTREAM

my heart reaches out both ways with such contrary
desires!" At last he slowly spread his wings and un-
willingly sailed away on the freshly washed air. He
has never returned to the dogwood tree or my hand.

Of all things that grow in my garden I love best
the evergreens. What a beautiful way they have of
entering into relations with human beings! How
readily they harmonize the wild nature of their forest
kindred with our domestic habits, and how subtly
yet powerfully they influence us while we set bounds
to their growth. Always beautiful, they seem to draw
out of us spiritual loveliness akin to their own.

The evergreens which grow on one side of my
garden walk seem to know me as I know them. They
stretch out their branches like hands to me and tease
me and pull my hair whenever I pass them. In the
springtime, when the world swims with odours of
life, they bend toward me like friends full of glad
news. They try to tell me what it is but I cannot
always make out what they are saying. I imagine
they are asking each other why human creatures
move from place to place, unstable as water, and as
the wind that is always in motion. "Look!" they
say, pointing their sharp little fingers, "look how she
is going in and out among the flowers, like the moths
the wind is blowing away out of sight."

If I could fathom that murmur, that sigh, I should
fathom the depths of consciousness of my evergreens.

I GO ADVENTURING 307
I do not know whether they speak of the future, but
I am positive they could reveal the past. I should
find out the whence and the how of things that hap-
pened centuries ago. They could tell me what they
have fared through in the immortality that lies be-
hind them. I have felt the rings buried in trees-
rings of the many seasons of births and deaths they
died to reach this life. Why this thirst to rise higher?
Why this love of stars and sun and clouds? Why
this sense of duty to the earth, this fixity of purpose,
this inward soul that remembers and sighs? As I
stand beside my evergreens they whisper "All that
is you has always been, and will always be. Every
atom and every impulse of you began in eternity
with us, and with us will return into eternity."

Oh, when my spirit is sore fretted by the thought
of the unhappiness in the world, it soothes me to walk
back and forth beside my evergreens. I feel like a
flower after a night's frost, when it steadies itself
on its stem and looks up again to the sky with
brave hope. And ever as I walk round my green
circle, I seem to hear the song of the roots down in
the ground, cheerily toiling in the dark. They never
see the lovely work they have wrought. Hidden away
in darkness they bring forth flowers of light! Little
and despised are they; but oh, mighty is their power
to create flower and tree! I think of them no less lov-
ingly because they are out of reach of my hand.

3o8 MIDSTREAM

As I walk round and round the green circle, rain-
wet winds fleck filmy spray in my face. From far-off
shores come sweet memories which surge and sigh
like surf breaking on invisible sands. They send a
spray of whispers through my mind— 'Home!
South-land!" "Mother." "Father." My heart gropes
in the throbbing darkness for the dear hands that
long ago caressed me and guided my faltering steps.
Words spelled by tiny, irresolute hands make me
smile. They are so real, I almost feel my baby sister
pressing against my knee.

The warm winds of Alabama flit between me and
the years. My brother Phillips is lisping, his baby
voice tapping lightly against my finger-tips, "Sis
Helen, please play horse with me." So many years
I sleep and wake and sleep again ; but memory gives
back the kisses that brushed my cheek and the hands
that brought me violets and the first ripe strawberry.
O the preciousness of all things that are "beautiful
for being old and gone." O the young days wreathed
in jessamine and rose-scented, full of frolic and the
din of mocking birds beating at the gates of Para-
dise I

O south winds, blow leagues and leagues beyond
the bars of night, or you'll have the heart out of my
breast with your sighs over the changes and the dis-
tances! The world is wide to roam, yet my thoughts
are all for taking the path the south winds have

l,tY'V.V.«-T.«TX.

I GO ADVENTURING 309
come. At the end of that path my loved ones are wait-
ing for me— Mildred and Warren, Phillips and
Ravia, Katherine, Patricia and little Mildred,
Brooks and baby Katherine. Names— names, yet
how sweet they sound in the ear of my heart! I am
coming home, children dear, to hide myself from
work and cares behind the arras of your gay laugh-
ter! You shall do with me as you will in merry wise,
and I shall forget for a brief space the cares of the
grown-up world !

Winds of the South, you have brought me pain
and joy in one breath! But you have poured your
changeless sweetness upon my weary head and
quieted the restless roaming of my mind.

All of us need to go often into the woods alone
and sit in silence at the feet of Nature. A few years
ago I persuaded my conscience to turn its back
upon prosaic tasks and go pleasuring in the open for
two months. Mrs. Macy and Edna Porter went with
me. Our automobile was equipped with a tent, a
small gasoline stove, an ice box, and last but not least,
Sieglinde, whose business it was to strike terror into
the hearts of wandering Robin Hoods and other
mtruders. One of our camping spots was a pasture
in the Berkshires where a brook laughed and romped.
We were awakened in the morning by a herd of
cows. I touched their glossy coats and wet noses as
they investigated our bivouac, and if they objected

3IO MIDSTREAM

to this familiarity they kept their thoughts to them-
selves. Another spot I loved v^as a pine wood near
Lake Champlain. One night v^e pitched our tent in
a great hay field out of Montreal which we called
Stormfield because just after we had settled for the
night a tempest burst upon us. We followed the St.
Lawrence from Montreal to Quebec, from Quebec
we came down through Maine and camped on the
Kennebec River. Logs were being floated down from
Moosehead Lake to sawmills farther along. In order
to get a sense of what the river was like I crawled
into it, keeping my body out of the reach of the logs
and clinging to the rocks. The current turned me
over and over like a leaf, but I managed to touch
some of the logs as they shot past, and the sense of
adventure was delightful.

We returned home slowly by way of the White
Mountains and the Adirondacks. In New Hampshire
we camped on the top of a hill near Lake Winnipe-
saukee because the other members of the party liked
the view. But before the night was over we discov-
ered that a fine landscape does not make a fine camp.
A demoniacal wind sprang up which was soon rein-
forced by a whole army of marauding winds which
seemed bent on tearing the tent to shreds. Finally
they did lift it, and would have carried it off bodily
if we had not each grasped a rope and held on with
might and main. Sieglinde howled like the winds

I GO ADVENTURING 311

themselves. At daybreak we wrapped ourselves in
blankets, chucked the tent into the car and made our
escape, with never a backward look at the beautiful
view that had lured us into that battlefield of the
winds. When we reached a sheltered spot we made
coffee, rested a little, dressed, and continued on our
way.

The most wonderful camp of all was in the very
heart of the Adirondacks, where the shade was so
dense that noonday seemed like midnight. We slept
on a bed of firs, by the side of a log fire which
burned all night. From the Adirondacks we dropped
into the Catskills and down the Hudson back to
New York.

People sometimes express surprise that I enjoy the
out-of-doors. But God has put much of his work in
raised print. The sweet voices of the earth reach me
through other avenues than hearing and sight. When
I am in the woods I love to put out my hand and
catch the rustling tread of small creatures in the
leaves.

I love to follow dark roads that smell of moss and
wet grasses, hill roads and deep valley roads so nar-
row that the trees and bushes touch me as I pass.

I love to stand on a little bridge and feel the brook
flowing under it with minnows in her hands.

I love to sit on a fallen tree so long that the shy
wood-things forget it may be imprudent to step on

312 MIDSTREAM

my toes, and the dimpling cascade throws water-
spray in my face. With body still and observant, I
hear myriad sounds that I understand — leaf sounds,
grass sounds, and twigs creaking faintly when birds
alight on them, and grass swaying when insects'
wings brush it, and the thistle's silvery flutter. These
sounds I hear, yet my way is still.

Chapter XIX

ENCHANTED WINDOWS

More than at any other time, when I hold a beloved
book in my hand my limitations fall from me, my
spirit is free. Books are my compensation for the
harms of fate. They give me a world for a lost world,
and for mortals who have disappointed me they give
me gods.

I cannot take space to name here all the books
that have enriched my life, but there are a few that
I cannot pass over. The one I have read most is the
Bible. I have read and reread it until in many parts
the pages have faded out — I mean, my fingers have
rubbed off the dots, and I must supply whole verses
from memory, especially the Psalms, the Prophets,
and the Gospels. To the Bible I always go for con-
fidence when waves of doubt rush over me and no
voice is near to reassure me.

In My Religion I have written of how Sweden-
borg deepened my sense of the Lord's presence on
earth. His books have given me a richer understand-
ing of the Bible and a precious sense of the Lord's
nearness. They have kept burning within me a de-
sire to be of use and to help prepare the way for the

313

314 MIDSTREAM

second coming of our Lord in the lives of men. I
still have The Divine Love and Wisdom, Intercourse
Between the Soul and the Body, and many volumes
of extracts from his other books which were copied
for me when I was a little girl by Mr. Hitz, who was
the first to open that wonderful window into the
spiritual world for me.

It was while I was still a little girl that I made the
acquaintance of three great American writers who
are inseparably linked in my mind. All three opened
for me magic windows through which I still look
upon the universe and find it "many splendoured."
I mean Emerson, Thoreau, and Whitman. Of the
three Whitman is my best beloved. He has been an
inspiration to me in a very special way. I began to
read his poetry years ago at a time when I was
almost overwhelmed by a sense of isolation and self-
doubt. It was when I read "The Song of the Open
Road" that my spirit leaped up to meet him. For
me his verses have the quality of exquisite physical
sensations. They wave like flowers, they quiver like
fountains, or rush on like mountain torrents. He sings
unconquerable life. He is in the middle of the stream.
He marches with the world's thought, not against
it. To me he seems incomparably our greatest poet.
He is a prophet, a voice crying in the wilderness,
"Prepare ye the way for the new day." Leaves
of Grass is the true American epic in the vastness of

i

ENCHANTED WINDOWS 315
its scope, in the completeness and beauty of its execu-
tion. As the sea reflects the sky's immensity, so
Leaves of Grass reflects the glowing, potential soul
of America. He portrays America as a young giantess
subduing a continent, and sings of her vastness, of
her resources, her multitudinous activities, her un-
paralleled material development, her commercial-
ism, her restlessness, turmoil, and blindness, her dull-
ness and drudgery, her dreams and longings, her tire-
less energy, her limitless opportunity. She is law-
less, rushing onward, always at extremities. She is
anarchic — she does not walk, she runs— she does not
run, she flies— she does not fly, she falls; all this
Whitman has pictured in a way that, so far as I
know, no one else has approached.

I did not know Whitman personally, but I knew
his friend, Horace Traubel, editor of The Con-
servator, When I came to live in New York, I met
him occasionally at meetings in memory of Whit-
man. Later he came to see us here in Forest Hills,
and we had some delightful talks together. One of
the things he said about Whitman that I remember
was, ''He's an age. As a man he has exhausted his
vitality, but as an age he is exhaustless. The world
will go on thinking about Whitman and getting new
lights on him as long as men continue to think about
the age he lived in. The mystical predominates in
him. That is why you get so near him. Many people

3i6 MIDSTREAM

miss him altogether because they lack that sense,
but you could set your net anywhere in Whitman
and catch something worth taking home."
^ Next to Whitman in the American trio I love
Thoreau. When I read Thoreau, I am not conscious
of him or the book or the words which flow under
my finger-tips, I am There. Through him Nature
speaks without an interpreter. He puts his ear to
her breast and hears her heart beat; and she speaks
to me in her own voice. I am a part of the river,
the lake, the field, the woods — I am a spirit wild and
free. I see everything for myself, no one interprets for
me. I have the illusion of being free of my depriva-
tions — I live my life in my own way.

Another naturalist whose books are to me a har-
bour of content is John Burroughs. They are what
he was when I met him — drenched in the sunshine
and sweetness of the out-of-door world. I love all
that he loves — birds, bees, and everything that blooms
and ripens, snow, ice, rain and wind, and the restful
simplicity of a life freed from the complex trappings
of modern society.

An American who is somehow connected in my
mind with Plato and Francis Bacon is Professor
William James. When I was a little girl he came to
see Miss Sullivan and me at the Perkins Institution
for the Blind in South Boston. He brought me a
beautiful ostrich feather, ''I thought/' he said, "you

ENCHANTED WINDOWS 317

would like the feather, it is soft and light and caress-
ing."

We talked about my sense perceptions and he
wove a magic web into his discourse. He said then,
and afterwards when I sent him a copy of The World
I Live In, that in our problems and processes of
thought we do not greatly differ from one another.
He was not surprised to find my world so much like
that of everyone else, though he said he was "quite
disconcerted, professionally speaking," by my ac-
count of myself before my " ^consciousness' was
awakened by instruction."

His thought was clear like crystal. His body, like
his mind, was quick and alert. In argument his
tongue was like a rapier, but he was always ready to
listen to the other side, and always made me ashamed
of my cocksureness about many things.

He was not a mystic — his mind could not thrive on
air as mine does — but I think he was something of a
poet as well as a philosopher.

As a young woman I was extremely fortunate in
having John Macy to counsel me with regard to
books. He was a great reader and an enthu-
siastic admirer of all that is beautiful in poetry
and prose. Whenever in his own reading he found
anything particularly impressive he read the pas-
sage to me. He read long passages from William
James's books as they came out, and many of Steveq-

3i8 MIDSTREAM

son's letters. He suggested that Mr. Hitz put Virgini-
bus Puerisque, and E. V. Lucas's The Open Road,
and The Friendly Town into braille, and he read
other books for me which later were printed in
braille, Huckleberry Finn among them. And it was
he who had Shelley's "The Cenci" embossed for me.

One of the most stimulating adventures I ever had
occurred when Mr. Macy became absorbed in the
question of the authorship of the Shakespeare plays.
We read books on the subject by Reed, Greenwood,
Begley, and our friend, Mr. William Stone Booth.
I cannot go into details here. I can merely com-
ment on the confused, breathless wonder of that de-
lightful time. Mr. Furness himself had told me that
only three facts had been ascertained with regard to
England's greatest genius — he was born, he married,
and he died! I was human enough to experience a
lively sense of gratification when Mr. Booth's argu-
ments convinced me that Bacon had left his signa-
ture upon the plays in the form of acrostics. I could
look behind them not to an uneducated rustic, but
to a man of mighty intellect. One not without grave
faults, but one who was "a memorable example to all
of virtue, kindness, peaceableness and patience, one
who stood cool and composed before a thousand
universes." Whether this was right or wrong, the
vigorous discussion shook my mind into more inde-
pendent thinking, and taught me not to be afraid of

ENCHANTED WINDOWS 319
established opinions. Such experiences add many
years to one's biography; for a thousand thoughts
spring up where there was one.

I am constantly surprised at the slight things
which have influenced me. A casual acquaintance, an
article in a magazine or a book, has caused me to
discard opinions I had held with a dogged faith.
When Mr. Macy first introduced me to H. G.
Wells's New Worlds for Old, the kingdom which
was my mind became a Social Utopia. With con-
fidence I exchanged my old world for his new one.
How simple he made everything! His eloquence
changed the selfish old world into a fair City of
God. Was not this the fulfilment of the hope of
youth? Mr. Wells was a glorified prophet until I
saw that he stopped at every altar to revise his
articles of faith. Then I gave him up but he had
already made a lot of trouble for me— God forgive
him!

It was Mr. Macy who introduced me to Tolstoi
Romain Rolland, Hardy, Shaw, Kropotkin, Anatole
France, Brieux, and Karl Marx. I had the pleasure
of meeting M. Brieux some years later when I was
lecturing in Northampton and he was lecturing at
Smith College. He could not speak English, and
my French was atrocious, but by some miracle of
intuition we understood each other : I read his lips,
and he was so delighted when I repeated his words

320 MIDSTREAM

correctly, his tears fell on my hand. I managed to tell
him I liked his brood of heresies, and that I was
grateful to him for breaking the cowardly silence of
the world on social evils. I told him how my eyes
had opened to those evils in my work for the blind.
I tried to say in French that we must use the lever
of plain speech to pry at the underpinnings of a
social system which ruins human bodies and minds
and covers the disaster with false blushes. I could
not think of the words for lever and pry, so my
high sailing sentiment went on the rocks. I managed
better with my offering that M. Brieux and Mr.
Shaw were true reformers, and both were assuredly
destined to drive people out of their refuge of pre-
tended ignorance. "But," said M. Brieux, "according
to the critics we are not artists, and should be cast
out because art has nothing to do with social or
political reform — it is an expression of beauty for
beauty's sake."

I think he assented to this view; but he said
beauty meant something different to him. "All things
are beautiful to me if they are a real part of human
life. Sad, terrible things must be shown also. To
realize ugliness is to suffer and to long for beauty."

After he returned to France he wrote to me, and I
was glad to learn through an article he inclosed that
he was taking an active part in the rehabilitation of
blind soldiers.

ENCHANTED WINDOWS 321

I encountered another distinguished author from
a foreign shore when I was in vaudeville. Mr. G. K.
Chesterton happened to be in Cleveland when I was
there. We were stopping at the same hotel. One eve-
ning he and Mrs. Chesterton called on us in our
rooms. He was exactly what I expected after reading
Father Brown, Trifles, and Three Diamonds, qnly
more delightful. He was a formidable personage,
with an Englishman's honest prejudices against
nearly everything American, and a scintillating
vocabulary in which to parade them. As our faults
passed before us they were so brilliantly illuminated
by Chestertonian rays of wit, aphorism, and invec-
tive that we were glad we had them.

I find that my mental constitution is unlike that
of most modern writers. I am thinking especially of
Mr. Mencken, Mr. Sinclair Lewis, and Mr. Eugene
O'Neill. I enjoy being credulous, while they seem
to abhor it. I am aware of a subtle connivance with
my folly. I keep the windows of my soul open to
illusions. Like the saints of early years, I am con-
stantly on the lookout for miracles. The unexpected
may happen at any odd moment, and I want to be
on the spot.

Of all the writers that have come to me in recent
years Joseph Conrad stands preeminent. I did not
really make his acquaintance until 1920 — I did not
have any of his books in braille before then. I cannot

322 MIDSTREAM

define the peculiar fascination he has for me, but
he took possession of me at once. I had always loved
books of the sea, and the days I have spent along
the shore have been happy ones. I love the dunes and
the sea weeds that drift in and crawl up on the sands,
the little waves that creep through shells and peb-
bles, like fingers seeking to spell a message to me.
"We used to be friends when you were the beginning
of a fish— do you remember?" I love winds and
storms and sailors, tropical dawns leaping out of the
east, and billows that like mighty tusked mastodons
crunch the land. It may be that I am especially alive
to the spell of the sea because it is so much like the
darkness that is my element. The dark, too, has its
deep silent currents and dangerous reefs, its mon-
sters, its creatures of beauty, its derelicts and ships.
In the dark, too, there is a star to steer by, and no
matter how far I travel there are always before me
vast oceans of experience that I have not yet ex-
plored.

It seems to me, the picture most constantly in Con-
rad's mind is that of bits of humanity adrift upon a
dark sea, trying to save themselves. Some think they
can reach shore by swimming, some fashion rafts,
some keep bobbing up and down, declaring that there
is no shore, yet they go on fighting, driven by some
incomprehensible urge to self-preservation. While
they seek to reach an invisible shore, they see them*

ENCHANTED WINDOWS 323
selves as eventually safe, triumphant heirs of im-
mortal happiness. What matter the loneliness, the
hardships, the loud beating of the billows and solemn
moan of fathomless waters? What counts is the inner
vision, the brightness and blessedness of the dream.

Mr. Frank Nelson Doubleday, Conrad's friend
and publisher who is also my friend and publisher,
has given me Chance, Victory, and the Life and Let-
ters by Jean-Aubry. My teacher had the Life and
Letters put into braille as soon as they came. While
I have been writing they have been reposing tan-
talizingly on the shelf, and my fingers have ached to
get hold of them.

I like books that bring me close to elemental things
—books like Willa Gather's My Antonia, Knut Ham-
sun's Growth of the Soil, Edgar Lee Masters' Spoon
River Anthology, and Olive Schreiner's The
Story of an African Farm. Two years ago Miss
Thomson gave me The Story of an African Farm,
It was the first time I had read anything of Olive
Schreiner's. I do not know of another woman writer
who has the power and vision of the author of this
book. It is now fifty-three years since it was written
and it is still as terrible as a primal force of nature.

Thomas Hardy came to me first with Tess of the
D'Urbervilles in his hand. The intensity of his dark
vision fascinated me. He is the greatest pessimist in
English letters, I think, with the exception of Dean

I'

3^4 MIDSTREAM
Swift, but his disheartening realism stimulates while
it depresses. Like Job, he is a poet, and one cannot
escape the feeling that he revels in his dark sor-
ceries, or the wish that a few gentle fairies had
made their abode in Dorsetshire.
f Bernard Shaw came to me first accompanied by
Candida and her poet lover. I cannot imagine any-
one dozing when Shaw is around. There is a mis-
chievous imp in him which brings the dullest of us
to attention. He is the gadfly of the absurdities of
our time. He has packed into two short sentences the
causes of unhappiness in the world. "What is the
matter with the poor is poverty," he says. "What is

Lthe matter with the rich is uselessness."
—A recent book that I have enjoyed immensely is
Microbe Hunters, by Paul de Kruif. It was most
comforting to learn that great scientists are human
like ourselves. I could have shouted with glee over
their quarrels, jealousies, and mistakes. How like
mere mortals they are in their weaknesses! But how
like gods in their imagination, patience, and nobility
of purpose! I have read few books relating to science
so entrancing as this one.

At times when I have not been able to get books
I wanted embossed over here because our braille
presses were so busy with other matters I have ap-
pealed to my friend, Sir Arthur Pearson, in Eng-
land. It was he who had Turgenev's Smoke done for

ENCHANTED WINDOWS 325

me and Value, Price, and Profit, by Karl Marx.
Several of Conrad's books were also transcribed for
me in England.

Publishers of books are as generous in giving
reprint permission to the blind as publishers of
magazines, but the publishing of braille books is
expensive, and many of the most important works
by the greatest authors are not available for the blind.
Very few of the blind can own any books at all,
not even a Bible. The cheapest Bible in raised print
costs sixty-five dollars.

Through the generosity of the Lions International
the blind are enjoying a great many more books
than they ever had before. We are indebted to them
for The Forsyte Saga. Galsworthy opens a wide
window for me. Like William Blake, he feels that a
bird in a cage puts out a light in Heaven, and that
the cry of a hunted animal tears a fibre out of the
brain of an angel, and that beggars' rags are toad-
stools on a prince's throne. ''As he caresses the heads
of his own dogs, an aching tenderness runs from his
finger-tips to the human under-dog— to tramp, and
prostitute, and hungry workingman." He knows
that compared with the spiritual experiences life
has to ofifer, "property" is nothing, nothing, nothing!

I wish I could express what poetry means to me.
I have always loved it. For many years I have had
beside me Palgrave's Golden Treasury, Keats, Shel-

326 MIDSTREAM

ley, Whitman, Browning, and Burns. In all of these
books there are pages which I have worn out. Keats's
"I Stood Tip-toe on a Little Hill" is quite flat. Shel-
ley's "Prometheus Unbound," "To a Skylark," and
"The Cloud" are very thin. So is Browning's "Saul,"
and the whole of The Golden Treasury is in a sad
state of dilapidation.

Poetry is to me the Mystic Trumpeter of which
Walt Whitman says,

At thy liquid prelude, glad, serene.

The fretting world, the street, the noisy hours of day withdraw,

A holy calm descends like dew upon mc,

I walk in cool refreshing night the walk of paradise,

I scent the grass, the moist air and the roses ;

Thy song expands my numb'd, imbonded spirit, thou freest,

launchest me.
Floating and basking upon Heaven's lake.

Next to Whitman my favourite American poet is
Lanier. It is given to poets and blind people to see
into the Unseen, and together Lanier and I have
gazed into the "sweet-within-sweet" mystery of
flowers and corn and clover, and the sweep of marsh
and sea has revealed to us the liberty beyond the
prison bars of sense.

As I read the poems which Francis Thompson
seems to put into my hands as a child brings "some
fond and fancied nothings," all I touch becomes
more significant— the rustle of the leaves, the shy
ways of children, the fugitive winds that come and

ENCHANTED WINDOWS 327

go among the flowers with trackless feet; and always
there is the undertone of ineffaceable sorrow and
tenderness.

I have not said much about the poets who are sing-
ing to-day because their music is not in raised letters.
I only catch tantalizing notes now and then when
some good Samaritan who is also a lover of poetry
reads to me. In this way I have enjoyed poems by
Yeats, Padraic Colum, and others. The brooding
Celtic note grips my heart. Yeats makes me want to
visit the Isle of Innisf ree and know the Danaan people
and gather ''the golden apples of the sun" and "the
silver apples of the moon." For a time our house in
Wrentham was vibrant with Synge's tragic laughter.
My mother read me ''Riders to the Sea" and "The
Well of the Saints." I also go with Douglas Hyde into
the cabins of Connaught where he finds songs on the
lips of old women spinning in the sun. I should like
to see more of the shining ones George Russell (IE)
finds dwelling among the hills of old Ireland. And
more of Lord Dunsany, who seems in the poem or
two I have read to penetrate into the realms of
twilight wonder where the incredible is tangible,
and the Irish little folk make music that enthralls
the unwary.

John Masefield is the most vital of the English
poets I have met of recent years. Poetry is not for
him, as for the Irish, an escape from life, but his

328 MIDSTREAM

slums and peasants and sailors and taverns interest
me.

Perhaps it is true of everyone, but it seems to me
that in a special way what I read becomes a part of
me. What I am conscious of borrowing from my
author friends I put in quotation marks, but I do not
know how to indicate the wandering seeds that drop
unperceived into my soul. I am not even extenuating
my appropriation of fine thoughts. I prefer to put
quotation marks at the beginning and the end of my
book and leave it to those who have contributed to
its interest or charm or beauty to take what is theirs
and accept my gratitude for the help they have been
to me. I know that I am not original in either content
or form. I have not opened new paths to thought
or new vistas to truth, but I hope that my books have
paid tribute in some small measure to the authors
who have enriched my life.

Chapter XX

THOUGHTS THAT WILL NOT LET
ME SLEEP

I HAVE already said that people are not interested
in what I think of things outside myself, but there
are certain subjects about which I feel very deeply,
and this book would not be an honest record of my
life if I avoided them. I realize that I am apt to be
too dogmatic when I write of things that mean much
to me. I know it would be an advantage to express
disapproval with captivating grace. If I could de-
liver my indictments with an urbanity so exquisite
that every reader would feel himself implicitly
exempted from the charge, and free to relish the
strokes administered to the rest, this chapter would
be more enjoyed. Even the accused like to be taken
into their enemy's confidence, and invited as a per-
sonal favour to look on while execution is being done
on the host without. While they laugh, no doubt they
resolve privately to be less like those "others" in the
future. But delicate banter is not one of my strong
points. I ask nothing for myself. I am not among the
victims of unjust laws. The struggle I have gone
through is no worse than, indeed, it is not so grinding

329

330 MIDSTREAM

as, that of the majority of men and women who are
enmeshed in economic problems which they are in-
capable of solving.

When I look out upon the world, I see society
divided into two great elements, and organized
around an industrial life which is selfish, combative,
and acquisitive, with the result that man's better in-
stincts are threatened, while his evil propensities are
intensified and protected. My knowledge of the con-
ditions that this system imposes is not vicarious. I
have visited mill towns in Massachusetts, Georgia,
the Carolinas, Alabama, Rhode Island, and New
Jersey. I have visited mining towns in Pennsylvania,
Utah, Alabama, Tennessee, West Virginia, and
Colorado. I have been in foundry towns when
the men were on strike. I have been in pack-
ing towns when the men were on strike. I have
been in New York when the longshoremen were on
strike. I have been on the New York Central when
the railroad men were on strike, and stones went
flying through the windows. I have spoken in cities
where feeling was so intense because of the conflict
between capital and labour that when I was asked
questions about the dispute part of the audience
hissed, and the manager came on to the stage to ask
rpe not to answer.

/I have gone through ugly dark streets filled with
small children whose little grimy faces already look

THOUGHTS 331

old. Many of them are defective in body or mind or
both.

All over America I have been appalled by the
number of young children v^ho spend the greater
part of the day in stufify, overcrowded rooms, looked
after by old people or by children only a little older
than themselves, while their parents work in factories
or in other people's houses. This seems to me the
most deplorable tragedy of our modern life. A
nation's first and last responsibility is the welfare of
its children. No nation can live if its children must
struggle not to die; no nation can decay if its children
are healthy and happy. These children who have
neither health nor happiness, who were born in ill-
5.melling, sunless tenements, whose hunger drove them
early to the sweat-shops and mills and mines— these
children, who in body and soul have become dwarfed
and misshapen, are not fit citizens for a republic.
They are at once a danger and a reproach. /

We bar the children of Europe's slurfis at our
gates. Our immigration laws do not permit the weak
and unfit to come into our country, but a singular
change of sentiment occurs when mothers wish to
restrict another kind of immigration far wider and
more fateful. Anyone who advocates the limitation
of families to a number which their parents can care
for in health and decency is frowned upon as a law-
breaker. It is not illegal to bring defective children

332 MIDSTREAM

into the world to grow up in soul-destroying poverty,
but it is criminal for a physician to tell a mother how
to protect herself and her family by birth-control!
It is a strange, illogical order that makes it a crime
to teach the prevention of conception and yet fails
to provide decent living conditions for the swarms of
babies that come tumbling into the world.
/ O America, beloved of my heart! The worst that
men will say of you is this : You took little children
out of their cradles, out of the sun and dewy grass,
away from play and their toys, and huddled them
between dark walls of brick and cement to work for
a wage, for their bread. For their heart-hunger you
gave them dust to eat, and for their labour you filled
their little hands with ashes! /

I love my country. To say that is like saying I love
my family. I did not choose my country any more
than I chose my parents, but I am her daughter
just as truly as I am the child of my Southern
mother and father. What I am my country has
made me. She has fostered the spirit which made my
education possible. Neither Greece nor Rome, nor
all China, nor Germany nor Great Britain has sur-
rounded a deaf-blind child with the devotion and
skill and resources which have been mine in America.

But my love for America is not blind. Perhaps I
am more conscious of her faults because I love her so
deeply. Nor am I blind to my own faults. It is easy

THOUGHTS

to see that there is little virtue in the old formulas,
and that new ones must be found, but even after one
has decided this, it is not easy to hold a steady course
in a changing world.

One of the painful consequences of holding to
one's course, if it is unpopular, is the division it
causes between friends. It is not pleasant to feel that
friends who have loved us no longer care to see us.
One says defiantly, "I don't care! I'm perfectly happy
without their friendship"; but it is not true. One can-
not help feeling very sad about it at times. We are
all complex. I wish I were made of just one self —
consistent, wise, and loving — a self I should never
wish to get rid of at any time or place, which would
move graciously through my autobiography, ''trail-
ing clouds of glory." But alas and alack! Deep within
me I knew nothing of the kind would happen. No
wonder I shrank from writing this book.

It is no use trying to reconcile the multitude of
egos that compose me. I cannot fathom myself. I ask
myself questions that I cannot answer. I find my
heart aching when I expected to find it rejoicing,
tears flow from my eyes when my lips were formed
to smile. I preach love, brotherhood, and peace, but
I am conscious of antagonisms, and lo! I find myself
brandishing a sword and making ready for the battle.

I think that every honest belief should be treated
with fairness, yet I cry out against people who uphold

334 MIDSTREAM

the empire of gold. I am aware of moods when the
perfect state of peace, brotherhood, and universal
love seems so far off that I turn to division, pugnacity,
and the pageant of war. I am just like St. Paul when
he says, "I delight in the Law of God after the in-
ward man; but I see another law in my members,
warring against the law of my mind." I am perfectly
sure that love will bring everything right in the end,
but I cannot help sympathizing with the oppressed
who feel driven to use force to gain the rights that
belong to them.

That is one reason why I have turned with such
interest towards the great experiment now being tried
in Russia. No revolution was ever a sudden outbreak
of lawlessness and wreckage incited by an unholy
brood of cranks, anarchists, and pedagogues. People
turn to revolution only when every other dream has
faded into the dimness of sorrow. When we look back
upon these mighty disturbances which seem to leap
so suddenly out of the troubled depths we find that
they were fed by little streams of discontent and
oppression. These little streams which have their
source deep down in the miseries of the common
people all flow together at last in a retributive flood.

The Russian Revolution did not originate with
Lenin. It had hovered for centuries in the dreams of
Russian mystics and patriots, but when the body of
Lenin was laid in simple state in the Kremlin, all

THOUGHTS

Russia trembled and wept. The mouths of hungry
enemies fed on new hopes, but the spirit of Lenin
lescended upon the weeping multitude as with cloven
tongues of fire, and they spoke one to another, and
were not afraid. ^'Let us not follow him with cower-
ing hearts," they said, ''let us rather gird ourselves
for the task he has left us. Where our dull eyes see
only ruin, his clearer sight discovers the road by
which we shall gain our liberty. Revolution, he sees,
yea, and even disintegration which symbolizes dis-
order is in truth the working of God's undeviating
Order; and the manner of our government shall be
ho less wonderful than the manner of our deliverance.
If we are steadfast, the world will be quickened to
courage by our deeds."

Men vanish from earth leaving behind them the fur-
rows they have ploughed. I see the furrow Lenin left
sown with the unshatterable seed of a new life for
mankind, and cast deep below the rolling tides of
storm and lightning, mighty crops for the ages to reap.

It is not possible for civilization to flow backwards
while there is youth in the world. Youth may be
headstrong, but it will advance its allotted length.
Through the ages in the battle with the powers of
evil — with poverty, misery, ignorance, war, ugliness
and slavery, youth has steadily gained on the enemy.
That is why I never turn away from the new genera-
tion impatiently because of its knowingness. Through

336 MIDSTREAM

it alone shall salvation come.

Yet the prospect of the millennium does not seem
to me as imminent as it once did. The process of the
emancipation of mankind from old ideas is very slow.
The human race does not take to new ways of living
readily, but I do not feel discouraged. Personally, I
am impeded by physical difficulties which generate
forces powerful enough to carry me over the barriers.
This is true of the world's problems, too. It is for us
to work with all our might to unite the spiritual
power of good against the material power of evil.

It is for us to pray not for tasks equal to our powers,
but for powers equal to our tasks, to go forward with
a great desire forever beating at the door of our
hearts as we travel towards the distant goal.

Man is unconquerable when he stands on the rights
of man. It is inspiring to see against the background
of our ignorance an old ideal or a discarded truth
flash forth new-created. The tragic deaths of Sacco
and Vanzetti were a fiery sign to the friends of free-
dom everywhere that the powers never slumber which
seek to subject the weak and unbefriended. Now and
then a Juares, a Liebnecht, a Debs, a Rolland, a Lenin,
or a Tolstoi startles the dormant souls of a few men
and women with the thunder of his words. The veil
of the temple is for a moment rent in twain ; Truth,
piercing as lightning, reveals the hideous thing we
have made of our humanity.

THOUGHTS

Then the veil is drawn, and the world sleeps again,
sometimes for centuries, but never as comfortably
as it did before.

This need not discourage us. We can still keep our
faces towards the dawn, knowing that with God a
thousand years are as a watch in the night. There is
always a new horizon for onward looking men.

The world which my imagination constructs out
of my philosophy of evolution is pleasant to contem-
plate. It is a realization of everything that seems
desirable to us in our best moods, and the people that
live in it are like those we sometimes meet whose
nobility is a prophecy of what we shall be when we
have reached the state in which the different parts
of our bodies and souls, our hearts and minds, have
attained their right proportions. This state will not
be attained without tribulation.

The clatter of a changing world is not pleasant,
and those who have enjoyed the comforts and pro-
tection of the old order may be shocked and unhappy
when they behold the vigorous young builders of a
new world sweeping away their time-honoured an-
tiquities. I look forward to the time when the most
atrocious of these antiquities — war — will be as much
shunned by mankind as it is now glorified. The voice
within us that cries so passionately for peace cannot
lie.

"The great God," said William Penn in his address

338 MIDSTREAM

to the Indians, ''hath written His Law in our hearts,
by which we are taught and commanded to love and
help do good to one another. It is not our custom to
bear hostile weapons against our fellow creatures,
for which reason we come unarmed. Our object is
not to do injury, but to do good. We are now met on
the broad pathway to good faith and good will, so
that no advantage may be taken on either side, but
all is to be openness, brotherhood, and love, while
all are to be treated as of the same flesh and blood."

If the experience of the other colonies of the At-
lantic seaboard was any criterion, Penn and his
followers were preparing themselves for destruction.
Any wise militarist of Massachusetts or Maryland or
Virginia could have told him of the treacherous
Indians, of their bloodthirstiness, of their unexpected
raids with tomahawk and torch, and the necessity,
therefore, of being armed. But the Quakers did not
know, or if they did know, they did not believe, and
so they came to this wilderness without so much as a
sword or a rifle, to establish a ''City of Brotherly
Love," and they succeeded. While other settlements
were attacked and burned, and slaughtered or carried
ofif into captivity, the little Pennsylvania colony en-
joyed uninterrupted peace and prosperity. The
Quakers had no forts, no soldiers, no arms. They
lived in the midst of a savage people who knew that

THOUGHTS 339

they were defenceless ; and yet, in spite of this fact,
or shall we say because of it, they knew no war for
seventy years. ^'Whatever were the quarrels of the
Pennsylvania Indians with others," says one of the
Quaker historians, ''they respected and held, as it
were, sacred the territories of the Quakers. The Penn
colony never lost a man, woman, or child by, the
Indians. The flowers of prosperity and good will
smiled in the footprints of William Penn."

I should like to see all the energy that is going
into preparation for war express itself in ideals that
we should be proud to cherish— that would make us
ashamed of the sordidness which prevails at the
present time. Work should be joyous. Everyone
should go to his labour singing as Whitman hears
America singing ''the varied carols," the mechanics
singing blithe and strong— the vitality of America
voiced in building for a race of free men and women.
There is a passage in Whitman which expresses my
desire for America with such sympathy I shall quote
it here :

This moment yearning and thoughtful, sitting alone,
It seems to me there are other men in other lands, yearning and
thoughtful ;

It seems to me I can look over and behold them, in Germany,
Italy, France, Spain— or far, far away, in China, or in
Russia, or India— talking other dialects ;

340 MIDSTREAM

And it seems to me if I could know those men, I should become

attached to them, as I do to men in my own lands;
Oh, I know we should be brethren and lovers,
I know I should be happy with them.

I believe that we can live on earth according to the
teachings of Jesus, and that the greatest happiness
will come to the world when man obeys His com-
mandment "Love ye one another."

I believe that every question between man and
man is a religious question, and that every social
wrong is a moral wrong.

I believe that we can live on earth according to the
fulfilment of God's will, and that when the will of
God is done on earth as it is done in heaven, every
man will love his fellow men, and act towards them
as he desires they should act towards him. I believe
that the welfare of each is bound up in the welfare
of all.

I believe that life is given us so we may grow in
love, and I believe that God is in me as the sun is in
the colour and fragrance of a flower — the Light in
my darkness, the Voice in my silence.

I believe that only in broken gleams has the Sun
of Truth yet shone upon men. I believe that love will
finally establish the Kingdom of God on earth, and
that the Cornerstones of that Kingdom will be
Liberty, Truth, Brotherhood, and Service.

I believe that no good shall be lost, and that all

THOUGHTS 341

man has willed or hoped or dreamed of good shall
exist forever.

I believe in the immortality of the soul because I
have v^ithin me immortal longings. I believe that the
state v^e enter after death is wrought of our own
motives, thoughts, and deeds. I believe that in the
life to come I shall have the senses I have not had
here, and that my home there will be beautiful with
colour, music, and speech of flowers and faces I
love.

Without this faith there would be little meaning
in my life. I should be ''a mere pillar of darkness in
the dark." Observers in the full enjoyment of their
bodily senses pity me, but it is because they do not
see the golden chamber in my life where I dwell
delighted ; for, dark as my path may seem to them,
I carry a magic light in my heart. Faith, the spiritual
strong searchlight, illumines the way, and although
sinister doubts lurk in the shadow, I walk unafraid
towards the Enchanted Wood where the foliage is
always green, where joy abides, where nightingales
nest and sing, and where life and death are one in the
Presence of the Lord.

Chapter XXI

MY GUARDIAN ANGEL

I HAVE already spoken of the memorable passage in
Gibbon's Autobiography in which he says,

Between the hours of eleven and twelve at night I wrote the
last page of it {The Decline and Fall)^ in a small house in my
garden. I laid down my pen and took several turns in a berceau,
or covered walk of acacias, which overlooked the country, the
lake, and the mountains. The night was calm, the sky was serene,
and the silvery orb of the moon was reflected from the waters.

He goes on to describe his mingled emotions of joy
and pain,

. . . my joy on the recovery of my freedom, and perhaps the
establishment of my fame — and whatsoever may be the fate of my
history, the life of the historian must be short and precarious.

I have v^ritten the last line of the last auto-
biography I shall write, in my little study, not in
Lausanne but in Forest Hills. I lift my tired hands
from the typewriter. I am free. There are no acacias
in my garden, but there are spruce and firs and dog-
woods. However, I am using the acacias symboli-
cally. To me they represent the life path on which

342

MY GUARDIAN ANGEL 343

I have walked while the love of countless friends has
shone upon me. I am conscious not only of those who
walk the earth but also of those who dwell on the
heaven side of life. My books, too, I like to think of
as friends smiling upon mc along the winding path-
way. It would require more genius than I have to
paint in felicitous words even a small part of the
multitudinously hued light that has given beauty
and meaning to my life, but through the distance and
darkness I fling those who have given it the best
wishes of my heart and my gratitude.

My autobiography is not a great work. Whatever
value is in it is there not because I have any skill as
a writer, nor because there are any thrilling in-
cidents in it, but because God has dealt with me as
with a son, and chastened me, and muffled His beams
that He might lead men in the path of aid to the
deaf and blind. He has made me the mouth of such
as cannot speak, and my blindness others' sight, and
let me be hands and feet to the maimed and the help-
less. And because I could not do this alone, being
imprisoned in a great darkness and silence, it was
necessary that another should liberate me. That other
is Anne Sullivan, my guardian angel.

I have been frequently asked what I should do
without her. I smile and answer cheerfully, ''God
sent her, and if He takes her, His love will fill the
void," but it terrifies me to face the thought that this

344 MIDSTREAM
question brings to my mind. I peer with a heavy
heart into the years to come. Hope's face is veiled,
troubling fears awake and bruise me as they wing
through the dark. I lift a tremulous prayer to God,
for I should be blind and deaf in very truth if she
were gone away.

The day that I hold the dearest of the year is the
day she came to me. She was a young woman, alone.
She had been blind from childhood, and her sight
had just been partially restored. Everything before
her was unfamiliar. She was fifteen hundred miles
away from her friends in a strange little town that
had been almost wrecked by the Civil War. With
little equipment except an extraordinary mind and
a brave heart, handicapped by imperfect vision, with
only the training she had received from Dr. Howe's
reports of his work with Laura Bridgman, without
help or counsel or previous experience in teaching,
she struggled with some of the most complicated
problems in one of the most difficult of all fields of
education.

There were gaps and deficiencies in her own in-
struction that she had the wisdom herself to see.
Perhaps it was because of them that she brought so
much freshness to her work. She was a delightful
companion, entering into all my discoveries with the
joy of a fellow explorer, and to this youthful inter-
est she added a smiling tact and endless ingenuity in

MY GUARDIAN ANGEL 345

explaining what I did not understand. And in those
days there was scarcely a thing in the world I did
understand. Above all she loved me.

The stimulating contacts of life that had been de-
nied me she strove to supply. She was ever at hand
to keep me in touch with the world of men and
women, and did everything she could to develop ways
by which I myself could communicate directly with
them. During the four years I was in Radcliffe Col-
lege, she sat beside me in the classroom and with
her supple speaking hand spelled out the lectures to
me word by word. In the same way she read many
books to me in French, German, Latin, Greek-
philosophy, history, literature, and economics— and
she has continued to bring me day by day, through
the years, the best thoughts of men and the news of
their achievements. In spite of repeated warnings
from oculists she has always abused her eyes for my
sake. Now she is able to read only with the aid of a
powerful lens which was prescribed for her by Dr.
Conrad Berens, who has stood near while this book
has been struggling into existence to keep the flicker-
ing light in her eyes that she might spell the typed
pages into my hand and thus direct the stream of my
thought within the bounds of a conceived plan.

I often wonder what my life would have been like
if she had not come into it. I cannot picture anyone
else in her place. There seems to me nothing acci-

346 MIDSTREAM

dental in the circumstances which made her my
teacher. The conditions of her childhood were so
harsh that from her earliest years she had to take
thought of life or perish. Wellington said that the
battle of Waterloo was won on the cricket fields of
England. So I say my education was accomplished
in the tragedy of my teacher's life. She understood
the void in my soul because her childhood had been
so empty of joy. It is when I think of how often I
have disappointed her with work I have done ill that
I cannot imagine what she saw in me that has kept her
at my side all these years.

She could have lived her own life, and had a bet-
ter chance of happiness than most women. Her
power of clear, audacious thought and the splendour
of her unselfish soul might have made her a leader
among the women of her day. The freshness and
lucidity of her writing would have won distinction.
But she has closed these doors to herself and refused
to consider anything that would take her away from
me. She delights in the silence that wraps her life
in mine, and says that the story of her teaching is the
story of her life, her work is her biography. She has
given me the best years of her womanhood, and she
is still giving herself to me day by day. She has done
much for me that cannot be defined or explained.
By the vitalizing power of her friendship she has
stirred and enlarged my faculties. She has made my

MY GUARDIAN ANGEL 347

good impulses more fruitful, my will to serve others
stronger. Slowly, slowly, out of my weakness and
helplessness she has built up my life. No one knows
better than she and I how that life falls short of what
we should like to make it. But, such as it is, she has
built it.

Out of the orb of darkness she led me into golden
hours and regions of beauteous thought, bright-spun
of love and dreams. Thought-buds opened softly in
the walled garden of my mind. Love flowered sweetly
in my heart. Spring sang joyously in all the silent,
hidden nooks of childhood, and the dark night of
blindness shone with the glory of stars unseen. As
she opened the locked gates of my being my heart
leapt with gladness and my feet felt the thrill of the
chanting sea. Happiness flooded my being as the sun
overflows the earth, and I stretched out my hands in
quest of life.

THE END

INDEX

INDEX

Addison, Joseph, 9.

Adult blind. See Blind.

Aguinaldo, Emilio, 49.

Akiba, Mr., 278.

Alabama, 36, 330.

Albee, Edward F,, 213.

Alexander, William, 4.

Allen, Mr. Edward, 231.

Alphabet. See Manual.

American Association for Promoting
the Teaching of Speech to the Deaf,
I H.-
American Association of Workers for
the Blind, 224.

American Foundation for the Blind,
organized, 224; Helen Keller begins
work for, 224-225; offers unique
service to, 230; aim of, 232; cam-
paign for, 232, fF.; bulletins of, em-
bossed for Helen Keller, 263; re-
ceives help from Mrs. Thaw, 269,
from Jedediah Tingle, 277; Edwin
Grasse plays for, 285.

American Mercury, 262.

Anagnos, Michael, 73, 107, 253.
Animals: deer, 43-44; dogs, 18-19,

37-40; horses, 188, 207-208.
Atlantic Monthly, 262.
Autobiography, Gibbon's, 191-192.
Autobiography, Helen Keller's, man-
ner of writing, 1-4; estimate of,
343-

Bacon, Francis, 58, 316, 318-319.
Baer, Dr. John Willis, 240.
Barron, C. W., 271.
Bartlett, Professor, 16.
Begley, 318.

Bell, Alexander Graham, Helen Kel-
ler's love for, 47; consulted concern-
ing school for deaf-blind, 71 ; right to
a say in shaping Helen Keller's Hfe,
74; urges Helen Keller to help deaf,
81, 132-133; introduces Helen
Keller's lecture, 107; comments on
Miss Sullivan's methods in teaching

35

Helen Keller, 108; grandfather's
invention to overcome stammering,
108; Melville Bell's (q.v.) visible
speech system, 109; visits Mdville
Bell, 109-111; Helen Keller visits
in Washington and Cape Breton,
III, fF.; Helen Keller on platform
with, 112-113; inventor of tele-
phone, 107, 109, 1 16-120, 121-123,
132; work for deaf, 107, io8, 109,
113-115, ii7» 132-133; talk with
Helen Keller on marriage, 133-135;
Helen Keller sees for last time, 135-
137; death of, 137-138- See also Bell,
Mrs. Alexander Graham; Bell, Elsie;
Bell, Daisy; Bell, Melville; Bell, Mrs.
Melville; Watson, Thomas A.; Deaf.
Motion picture.
Bell, Mrs. Alexander Graham, iii,
131.

Bell, Daisy, iii, 129. See also Fair-
child, Mrs.

Bell, Elsie, iii, 129. See also Grosvenor
Gilbert, Mrs.

Bell, Melville, 108-111.

Bell, Mrs. Melville, iio-iii.

Berens, Conrad, 345.

Bergson, Henri, 22.

Bible, 313, 325.

Birth control, 331-332.

Bittman, Ian, 43, 177-178.

Blackstone's Commentaries, 245.

Blake, William, 325.

Blind, absurdities about, 79, 153;
adult, 75776, 78, 87, 225 fF., 229, 234,
241; attitude of seeing towards,
225-230; books for, 78, 227-228,
324-325; Carmen Sylva's plan for
city of, 74; Lighthouse for the, loi-
102; magazines for, 80, 263 ; National
Institution for, in Paris, 77; printing
for, 76-78, 81. See also American
Foundation for the Blind, HelenKeller,
Massachusetts School and Perkins In-
stitution for the Blind, Massachusetts
State Commission for the Blind, Deaf-

INDEX

blind, and individual blind, Braille,
Louis; Campbell, Sir Francis; Gar-
rett, Elizabeth; Grasse, Edwin; Haito-
viich, Abraham; Hayes, Lydia;
Irvin, Robert; Schall, Thomas.

Blind-deaf. See Deaf-blind.

Blindness, Mark Twain's opinion of,
48; prevention of in children, 79-80,
231; compared with deafness, 82,
248.

Blindenwesen, 81.

Bok, Edward, 4, 5, 80, 236.

Bond, Carrie Jacobs, 240.

Books for blind. See Blind.

Booth, William Stone, 58, 318.

Borah, Senator, 235.

Boston Conservatory of Music, 88.

Braille, books in at college, 8-9; at
Wrentham, 28, 34; invention of,
77-78; dictionaries in, 84; note from
lover in, 180; letters from Mrs.
Macy in, 182; mother's difficulty
with, 218; ease with which it can be
learned, 228; M. Galeron and, 249;
Madame Galeron's poems in, 250;
magazines in, 263; letters in, 263;
tablet, 264; Countee CuUen's poems
in, 278; Mr. Hitz puts books into,
for Helen Keller, 318; Conrad in,
321, 323; in England, 324-325;
cost of books, 325.

Braille, Louis, 77.

Brashear, John, 269.

Brastow, Dr., 41.

Bridget. See Crimmins, Bridget.

Bridgman, Laura, 244'-246, 344.

Brieux, Eugene, 319, 320.

Briggs, Dean, 15-16, 25.

Briggs, W. O., 236.

Brooklyn Bridge, 2, 295.

Browning, Elizabeth Barrett, 18, 135.

Browning, Robert, 9, 137, 143, 326.

Burbank, Luther, 240.

Burns, Robert, 142-143, 326.

Burroughs, John, 275, 316.

Cabot, Dr. Richard, 275.

California, 159-164, 166, 238, 265.

Campbell, Charles F. F., 75-76, 80-

81, 236.
Campbell, Sir Francis, 75.
Canada, 158.
Canadian Rockies, 162.
Candida, 324.

Capital, 330.
Carmen Sylva, 74.

Carnegie, Andrew, 74, 139-141, 146-

147, 169, 290.
Carnegie, Margaret, 140.
Carnegie, Mrs. Andrew, 140.
Carlyle, Thomas, 143.
Carolinas, The, 330.
Caruso, Enrico, 285.
Casting Away of Mrs. Leeks and Mrs.

Aleshine, The, 281.
Cather, Willa, 323.
Catullus, 9.
Cenci, The, 318

Century Magazine, Essays in, 34.
Cervantes, 51.
Chahapin, 285.
Chance, 323.
Chaplin, Charlie, 194.
Chatauqua anti-preparedness tour,
171-173, 175, 176; second tour, 177.
Chesterton, G. K., 321.
Chesterton, Mrs. G. K., 321.
Child labour, 330, 331, 332.
Children, 284.
Clemenceau, Georges, 206.
Clemens, Clara, 55.
Clemens, Mrs. Samuel, 50-51.
Clemens, Samuel L. See Mark Twain.
Clemens, Susie, 50.
Cleveland, President, 125.
Cloud, The, 326.
Coe, Mrs., 288.
College. See Radcliffe College.
Colum, Padraic, 327.
Compass. See Holmes, Edward L.
Conrad, Joseph, 287, 321-323.
Conservator, The, 315.
Coolidge, Archibald Cary, 17.
Coolidge, Mrs., 235.
Coolidge, President, 235.
Copeland, Charles Townsend, 4, 16.
Cowl, Jane, 285.
Crimmins, Bridget, 19, 21-22.
Crisp, Donald, 239.
CuUen, Countee, 278.

Daniel Deronda, 2S1.
Dans Ma Nuit, 248.
Darky, 39.

Darwin, Charles, 118.
Dawn, Sylvia, 190.

Deaf, American Association for Pro-
moting the Teaching of Speech to
the, 114; Dr. Bell and Dr, James

INDEX

Kerr Love urge Helen Keller to
help, 81-82; teaching speech to,
90 fF., 107; education of, 108, 113-
iiS, 132; Horace Mann School, 90;
Rochester School, 237.
Deaf-bhnd, school planned for, with
Helen Keller in charge, 71-72;
Helen Keller speaks in behalf of, at
St. Louis Exposition, 82-83; edu-
cation of, 253-255; capacities of,
255-261. See also Bridgman, Laura;
Galeron, Madame; Martin, Helen;
Pearce, Theodosia; McGirr, Katie;
Schulz, Helen; Stringer, Tommy.
See also Mack, Rebecca, and Sense
Impressions.
Deafness, more of an impediment than

blindness, 82, 248.
Debs, Eugene, 275-276, 336.
Decline and Fall, The. See History of
the Decline and Fall of the Roman
Empire, The.
Deer, 43-44.

Deliverance," 187.
Descartes, 12.

Detroit League for the Handicapped,

236.
Diderot, 81.
Dilley, Mr., 38.

Divine Love and Wisdom, The, 3 14.
Dogs, 18-19.
" Dog's Life, A," 194.
Doubleday, Frank Nelson, 269-270,
323.

Doubleday, Russell, 270.
Dryden, John, 9, 121.
Dunne, Peter Finlay, 48, 54.
Dunsany, Lord, 327.

Edison, Thomas A., 290-291.

Edward, King, 144.

Effendi. See Doubleday, Frank Nelson.

Elegy Written in a Country Church-
yard, 143.

Eliot, Charles W., 16.

Emerson, Ralph Waldo, 13, 15, 314.

Encyclopedia of Education, 81.

Everybody's Magazine, 289.

Eve's Diary, Mark Twain reads from,
64—66.

Exploring Life, no.

Fairbanks, Douglas, 237-239.
Fairchild, Mrs., 123. See also Bell,
Daisy.

353

Fay, Dr., 114.

Father Brown, 321.

Fifth Avenue, 164-165.

Fisher Brothers, 236.

Fitzgerald, Edward, 261.

Ford, Edsel, 236, 293.

Ford, Mrs. Edsel, 236.

Ford, Henry, 291-294.

Forest Hills, 186, 209, 278, 283, 284,

^315,342.

Forsyte, Saga, The, 325.

Foundation for the Blind, American.

See American Foundation fox the

Blind.
France, Anatole, 319.
Francis, David Rowland, 82.
Friendly Town, The, 318.
Fuld, Mrs. Felix, 241.
Fuller, Lucy Derby, 140.
Fuller, Sarah, 90, 91, 92.
Funston, Colonel, 49.
Furness, H. H., 318.

Gabrilowitsch, 285.
Galeron, Monsieur, 248-249,
Galeron, Mme. Berthe, 247-249, 254-
255-

Gallaudet College, 114.

Galsworthy, John, 325.

Gandhi, Mahatma, 282.

Garfield, President, 122.

Garrett, EHzabeth, 278-281, 305.

Garrett, Pat, 278.

Georgia, 330.

Gibbon, Edward, 191, 342,

Gilder, Richard Watson, 34.

Gilman sqhool, 7, 265.

Godowsky, Leopold, 286.

Golden Treasury, The, 325-326.

Goldman, Harry, 241.

Goldsmith, OHver, 9.

Gladstone, William Ewart, 142.

Gray, Thomas, 143.

Grasse, Edwin, 285.

Graselli, 241.

Greenwood, 318.

Grosvenor, Gilbert, 235.

Grosvenor, Mrs. Gilbert, 235. See also

Bell, Elsie.
Growth of the Soil, 323.

Haitovitch, Abraham, 285.
Hale, Edward Everett, 32, 35.
Hamsun, Knut, 323.
Hans, 39.

354

INDEX

Happiness, lecture on, 141, 145-146.

Hardy, Thomas, 319, 323.

Harmon, William. See Jedediah Tingle.

Harper's, 262.

Howard University, 6, 20.

Haiiy, Valentin, 77.

Hay, daughter of John, 235. See

Wadsworth, Mrs.
Hayes, Charles, 238.
Hayes, Lydia, 251.
Hearn, Lafcadio, 244.
Heifetz, 286.
Heinrich, Max, 271-273.
Henry IF, 9.
Henry F, 9.

Hicks, Mrs. Frederick, 235.

Hirsch, Betty, 278.

History of the Decline and Fall of the

Roman Empire, 192, 342.
Hitz, John, 28, 34, 173, 271, 276-277,

3i4».3i8.

Hofheimer Foundation, Nathan. See

Nathan Hofheimer Foundation.
Hollywood, 187,

Holmes, Edward L., 265-267, 296.
Holmes Master Compass and Position

Indicator, 267.
Holmes, Walter, 80, 252.
Holt. See Mather, Winifred Holt.
Homer, 119.
Horace, 121.
Horses, 188, 207-208.
Howe, Samuel Gridley, 73, 77, 84, 244,

344-

Howells, William Dean, 55, 275.
Huckleberry Finn, 318.
Hutton, Lawrence, 47-48, 103.
Hutton, Mrs. Lawrence, 71-72, 288.
Hyde, Douglas, 327.

/ Stood Tip-toe on a Little Hill, 326.

In Memoriam, 132.

Industrial life, 330-331.

Industry, 287-288.

Inferno, Dante's, 5.

Ingersoll, Robert, 145.

Intercourse Between the Soul and the

Body, 314.
Iphigenia, 281.
Irvin, Robert, 228.
Irving, Sir Henry, 284-285.
Is Shakespeare Dead ?, 58.

James, William, 316-317.
Jastrow, 28.

Jaures, 336,

Jedediah Tingle (William Harmon),

277-278.
Jefferson, Joseph, 285.
Joan of Arc, 10, 207.
Johns Hopkins Medical School, 231.
Johnson, 9.
Jonquil, 125.

Jordan Marsh department store, 185.

Joy, Mr., 236.

Joy, Mrs., 236.

Jude, The Obscure, 147.

Julius Ccesar, 132.

Kahn, Otto, 234.

Kaiser, 37.

Kant, 13-15.

Keats, 9, 325-326.

Keller, Brooks, 309.

Keller, Captain, 218.

Keller, Helen, begins autobiography
and describes manner of composi-
tion, 1-4; tells of difficulties with
The Story of My Life, 4-6; meets
John Macy, 6; difficulties at Rad-
clifFe College, 7-9; studies at Rad-
clifFe, 9-15; contact with professors,
15-18; contact with classmates,
18-20; with students at Harvard,
20-21; happy memories of college
days, 21-24; graduation, 24-26;
moves to Wrentham, 26; describes
house, 27-28; describes balcony on
which she "heard" the whippoor-
will, 29-30; appreciates Mr. Spauld-
ing's help, 30-32; joyfully witnesses
teacher's wedding with John Macy,
32-33; describes teacher, 33; de-
scribes John Macy, 33-34; writes
The World I Live In, 34; writes
The Song of the Stone Wall, 35;
appreciates Mr. Macy's help, 35-
36; tells of pets at Wrentham, 36;
describes walk, 45; summarizes
happiness of the Wrentham days,
46; meets Mark Twain, 47-48; meets
Peter Finlay Dunne, 48; listens to
Mark Twain's denunciation of
Philippine atrocities, 48-49; speaks
of Mark Twain's cynicism, 49-50;
of his love for his wife, 50-51; of
his place in literature, 51-52; of his
appreciation of The World I Live In;
of his invitation to her and the
Macys to come to Stormfield, 53;

INDEX

355

describes the visit, 52-66, 68; speaks
of Mark Twain's attitude towards
her, 66, 69; difficulties in choosing
a life work, 70; friend's plan for
school for deaf-blind, 70-72; other
plans, 72; Mr. Anagnos' plan, 73;
Queen of Roumania's plan, 73-74;
attitude of closest friends, 74-75;
Mr. Charles F. F. Campbell inter-
ests in work for blind, 75; begins
seriously to study problems of blind-
ness, 76; writes article for Kansas
City Star, 80; writes series of articles
for Ladies^ Home Journal, 80; writes
an article on blind for an Encyclo-
edia of Education, 81; requests to
elp blind multiply, 81; urged by
Dr. Bell and Dr. James Kerr Love
to help deaf, 81-82; visits St. Louis
Exposition, 82-83; hemmed in by
obstacles, 83-85; visited by Ma-
dame Nordin, 85-86; tries to barri-
cade herself into privacy, 86; joins
Massachusetts Commission for the
Blind, 86-87; difficulties in keeping
up with commission, 87-88; resigns
from commission, 88; determines to
learn to speak better, 88-89; de-
scribes work with Miss Sarah
Fuller, 90-91; at Wright-Humason
School, 92; Miss SuUi van's work
with speech, 92-93; Mr. White
begins work on, 937-96; first appear-
ance in Montclair, New Jersey,
96-98; begins lecturing, 99 ff.; is
present at opening of New York
Lighthouse for Blind, 101-102; is
present at Wilson's' inauguration,
103; gives impression of Wilson,
103-106; introduced to lecture
audience by Dr. Bell, 107; speaks
of Dr. Bell's enthusiasm concerning
Mrs. Macy's method of teaching,
108; describes Dr. Bell and his
father, 109-110; brings flowers to
Mr. and Mrs. Melville Bell, iio-
iii; speaks of Mrs. Alexander
Graham Bell, iii; present at
gatherings at Dr. Bell's home, 112;
with Dr. Bell on platform, 112-113;
becomes aware of telephone, 117;
pleasant times with Dr. Bell in
Boston, 117-121; receives letters
from Dr. Bell, 123; receives com-
ment from Dr. Bell on The World I

Live In, 123; on The Song of the
Stone Wall, 124; receives "a secret"
from Dr. Bell, 124; speaks of visit
to President Cleveland, 125; visits
"zoo" with Dr. Bell, 125; visits
Pittsburgh with Dr. Bell, 126-127;
visits Dr. Bell in Nova Scotia, 127;
helps Dr. Bell with kites, 128;
listens to scientific conversations,
128-129; spends night on house-
boat, 129-13 1 ; talks of stars with
Dr. Bell and Prof. Newcomb, 130-
131; talks with Dr. Bell of marriage,
133-135; last sight of Dr. Bell, 135-
137; refuses Carnegie's annuity,
140; calls upon Carnegie, 140-146;
continues lecture tour, 146; sur-
renders to necessity of taking an-
nuity, 146-147; goes through tense
suffering when John Macy leaves,
147; stays constantly on road
lecturing, 149; describes sensations
in travelling, 149-151; attitude
towards social functions, 151-153;
attitude of newspapers towards,
153; jumble of experiences in travel-
ling, 154-155; visits schools for
blind or deaf, 155; visits invaHds,
156; receives new idea of the struc-
ture of civilization, 156-158; starts
on first tour across continent, 158;
reception in California, 159-160;
in the Muir woods, 161-162; de-
scribes San Francisco, 162-164;
speaks of odours, 164-166; subse-
quent tours, 166-168; Polly Thom-
son becomes secretary of, 169;
appreciation of Polly Thomson, 169;
overwhelmed by World War, 170-
171; undertakes anti-preparedness
Chautauqua tour, 171; attitude of
audiences, 172; of press, 172-173;
visit to President Roosevelt, 173-
175; wishes concerning war, 175-
176; depression, 176; love affair,
176-182; receives letters from
teacher who is in Porto Rico, 182;
gives up place at Wrentham, 183-
185; makes home in Forest Hills,
186; receives letter concerning
motion picture of her life, 186; goes
to Hollywood, 187; begins picture,
188; difficulties in posing, 189-190;
substitutes for, in early scenes, 190-
191; presents friends, 191-193;

356

INDEX

visits with Charlie Chaplin, 194-
195; Knowledge and Ignorance
contend for spirit of, 195-196; goes
out to hillside for part of picture,
197-198; with Ulysses, 198-199;
flight in an aeroplane, 199-2CX);
visits shipyards, 200-201; as Mother
of Sorrows, 201-206; interviews Big
Four, 206-207; as a sort of Joan of
Arc, 207-208; enters vaudeville,
209; friends of protest against
vaudeville, 209; finds vaudeville
deHghtful, 210-21 1 ; difficulties on
lecture tours, 21 1-2 12; Hkes man-
agement of vaudeville under Mr.
Albee, 213-214; likes vaudeville
audiences, 214-215; mother's death,
216; happiness of mother on ac-
count of, in early days, 216-217;
suffering because of, 217-218; de-
scribes mother on farm, 218-220;
talks with mother about books,
220-221; spends summer with, at
Lake St. Catherine, 221; receives
word of mother's death, 222-223;
invited to lecture for the American
Foundation for the BHnd, 224;
invokes reader's attention to blind,
225 ff.; start's Foundation cam-
paign, 232; chooses Dr. van Dyke
as national chairman, 233; goes to
Washington, 234; visits Coolidge,
234-235; visits Detroit, 236; visits
Buffalo, 237; visits Rochester, 237;
writes to stars in filmland, 237; re-
ceives answer from Mary Pickford,
237; visits Mary Pickford, 238-240;
visits Carrie Jacobs Bond, 240;
visits Luther Burbank, 240; stops
campaign" to write autobiography,
240-241; happiness over gift to
Foundation fund, 241-242; attitude
towards deprivations, 243-245; re-
membrance of Laura Bridgman

245- 246; compares self with Laura,

246- 247; compares self with Ma-
dame Berthe Galeron, 248; speaks
of other deaf-blind, 250-253; of
Rebecca Mack's work for, 253; sug-
gestions for welfare of, 253-254;
capacities of, 255; subjected to
tests, 255-260; feeling towards
denials of limitation, 260-261;
varied contacts, 262; magazines,
262-263; goes on imaginary trip

around world with Edna Porter,
264-265; keeps in touch with
science through Edward L. Holmes,
265; with callers, 268; friends who
have enriched life, 268; Mrs. Wil-
liam Thaw, 268; Frank Nelson
Doubleday, 269-270; Russell
Doubleday, 270-271; Swedenbor-
gian friends, 271; Mr. and Mrs.
Charles White, 271 ; Max Heinrich,
271-273; the Maeterlincks, 273;
Signora Montessori, 273-274; Mar-
garet Macmillan, 274; Judge Lind-
sey, 274-275; friends through corre-
spondence, 275; Eugene Debs, 275;
Robert M. La Follette, 276-277;
William Harmon, 277; visitors to
Forest Hills, 278; Ehzabeth Garrett,
278-281; Nina Rhoades, 281; Sir
Arthur Pearson, 281; Rabindranath
Tagore, 281-282; Art Young, 283;
Mr. Watson, 282-284; enjoyment
of performances of actors, especially
Ellen Terry, Sir Henry Irving,
Joseph Jefferson, David Warfield,
and Jane Cowl, 284-285; enjoyment
of rnusicians, especially Caruso,
Chaliapin, Gabril6witsch, Haito-
vitch, and Grasse, 285; of Heifetz,
285-286; of Godowsky, 286; of the
radio, 287; attitude towards jazz,
287; contacts of court of industry:
with Mr. Spaulding {q.v.), 288; Mr.
H. H. Rogers {q.v.), 288-289; with
Mr. Carnegie {q.v.), 290; with Mr.
Edison, 290-291; with Mr. Ford,
291-294; visits to New York, 295-
300; enjoyment of garden, 300-309;
enjoyment of camping trip, 309-
311; enjoyment of woods, 31 1-3 12;
enjoyment of books, 313 ff. especi-,
ally the Bible, 313, Swedenborg's,
313; Whitman's, 315, {q.v., and also
Horace 7>i2w^^/),Thoreau's,3 i6,John
Burroughs', 316; WiUiam James',
316-317; John Macy's counsel con-
cerning, 317, 319; on Shakespeare-
Bacon controversy, 318-319; H. G.
Wells', 319; Brieux's,3i9-32o; Ches-
terton's, 321; modern, by contrast
with her own attitude of mind, 321;
Conrad's, 321-323; elemental, 323;
Hardy's, 323-324; Shaw's, 324;
Paul de Kruif's, 324; special, made
in England, 324-325; in braille.

IN

325; of poetry, 325-328; attitude
towards industrial system, 330;
towards child labour, 330-331, 332;
towards birth control, 331-332;
towards America, 332-333; towards
complexity of her own ego, 333-334;
towards Russia, 334-335; towards
youth, 3 3 5-3 36; towards millennium,
336; towards peace, 337-339; phi-
losophy of life, 3 39-341 ; emotions on
finishing autobiography, compared
with those of Gibbon on finishing
The Decline and Fall, 342; tribute
to Guardian Angel, Anne Sullivan,
343-347.

Keller, Kate Adams (Helen Keller's
mother), unable to be present at
Helen's graduation, 25; right to a
say in shaping Helen's life, 74;
accompanies Helen on her firstt our
across continent, 158 ff.; place taken
by Polly Thomson on second tour,
169; comes to Wrentham, 177;
asks Helen about lover, 180; takes
Helen to Montgomery, 181; comes
to California for picture, 199; death
of, and Helen Keller's tribute, 216.

Keller, Katherine, 309.

Keller, Mildred. See Tyson, Mildred.

Keller, Phillips, 218, 309.

Keller, Ravia, 309.

Kellerman, Annette, 153.

Kelvin, Lord, 117.

Kent, William, 161-162.

Kindergarten for the Blind, 253.

King, 43.

Kinney, Lenore. See Smith, Lenore

Kinney.
Kipling, 51, 106.
Kropotkin, 319.
Kruif, Paul de, 324.

Labour. See Child Labour.
Ladies' Home Journal, 4, 5, 6, 80.
La Follette, Robert M., Jr., 277.
La Follette, Robert M., Sr., 276-
277.

Langley, Prof., 112, 128.
Lanier, Sidney, 326.
Lansing, Robert, 235.
Lathbury, Clarence, 271.
Latimer, H. Randolph, 224.
Lawson, Thomas, 289.
Le Blanc, Georgette, 273.
If^aves of Grass, 3 14-315.

Lectures by Helen Keller: early, 99-
loi; in behalf of the Lighthouse,
loi; in Washington, 107; in Rich-
mond, 139; commented upon by
Carnegie, 141, 146; in Maine, 146;
tour across America, 149 fF.; second
tour, 169 ff.; difficulties over, 211-
212; on behalf of the American Foun-
dation for the Blind, 224-225; in
Detroit, 236; in Buffalo, 237; in
Rochester, 237; discontinued, 240-
241; in Northampton, 319; in towns
where capital and labour were in
conflict, 330.

Lenin, 334, 335, 336.

Lewis, F. Park, 79.

Lewis, Sinclair, 321.

Liebfreed, Edwin, 196-197.

Liebknecht, Wilhelm, 336.

Life and Letters of Joseph Conrad, 323.

Life on the Mississippi, 52.

Lighthouse for the Blind, 101-102.

Lights from Little Lanterns, 251.

Lincoln, Abraham, 22.

Lindbergh, 122.

Lindsey, Judge, 274-275.

Lions International, 231, 325.

Lip reading, when Mark Twain read
Eve's Diary, 65, 66; Helen Keller
demonstrates, 99; Mrs. Bell's skill
at, in; advocated by Dr. Bell,
1 1 3-1 14; when callers are present,
268.

Livy, 9.

Lloyd-George, David, 206.

Lord, Bradford, 242.

Lorm, 84.

Los Angeles, 159.

Love, James Kerr, 81, 278.

Lucas, E. v., 318. ^

Lyde, Elsie Leslie, 30-31.

Lyon, Miss, 53, 55, 59-60, 63-64.

Lyon, Mrs. Edmund, 237.

Macbeth, 155.

Mack, Rebecca, 251, 253.

Macmillan, Margaret, 274.

Macy, Anne Sullivan, at Gilman
school, 7-8; reads to Helen Keller at
college, 8-9; visits Dr. Neilson, 16;
conveys feeling of Prof. Copeland's
voice to Helen Keller, 16; speaks to
Prof. Coolidge, 17; spells classmates'
chatter to Helen; gets Lenore to
substitute for her, 20; at Helen's

358

INDEX

graduation, 24-26; prepares house
at Wrentham, 27-29; tells Helen
about whippoorwill, 29-30; assisted
financially by Mr. John Spaulding,
31; marries John Macy, 32-33;
described by Helen Keller, 33;
waits for Nimrod, 39; watches the
deer in the apple orchard, 43-44;
compared with Mark Twain, 47;
meets Mark Twain, 47; appreci-
ated _ by Mark Twain, 50; Mark
Twain watches her spell to, 57;
referred to by Mark Twain as
Guardian Angel, 59; walks with
Mark Twain, 62; spells Eve's Diary
into Helen's, hands, 64, 65; becomes
exhausted over plan for school for
deaf and blind, 70-71; interference
with, 72; reproached for leaving
Perkins Institution, 73; right to
manage Helen, 74; at St. Louis
Exposition, 82-83; breaks down, 83;
household difficulties, 84-85, 86;
on Massachusetts Commission for
the Blind, 87-88; takes Helen to
Miss Sarah Fuller for lessons in
articulation, 90; helps Helen with
articulation, 92-93, 98; begins
lectures, 99; interests audience in
story of Helen, loo-ioi; describes
Wilson's inauguration, 103; sent to
Helen by Dr. Bell, 107; commended
by Dr. Bell, 108; speaks of Dr.
Bell's and his father's enunciation,
no; visits Dr. Bell, iio-iii; gets
wedding present from Dr. Bell, 124-
125; describes Pittsburgh, 126-127;
visits Beinn Breagh, 127; on the
houseboat, 129-13 1; with Mrs. Bell,
131-132; Dr. Bell speaks of mar-
riage, 134-135; tired from lectures,
139; not well, 146, 147; spells
description of California, 159; an-
swers Roosevelt's questions about
Helen Keller, 173; shows Roosevelt
how Helen Keller reads lips, 174;
ill, 177, 178, I79» 180, 181; goes to
Porto Rico, 182; moves to Forest
Hills, 186; dream in motion picture,
197; protests against Helen Keller's
going up in aeroplane, 199; Helen
Keller concerned about future,
209; in vaudeville, 210; speaks of
Mrs. Keller, 219; lectures for Amer-
ican Foundation for the Blind, 224;

calls upon Coolidge, 234-235; visit
to Rochester School for the Deaf,
237; visits Mary Pickford, 238-239;
with Laura Bridgman, 245-247;
compared with M. Galeron, 248;
inspires Miss Hayes, 251; reads
current news to Helen Keller, 262;
interprets callers to Helen, 268;
with Signora Montessori, 273-274;
influences Margaret Macmillan,
274; with Art Young, 283; visits
H. H. Rogers, 288; with Edison,
291; with Helen Keller on trip
around Manhattan Island, 296; goes
camping, 309-311; William James
visits, 316; as Helen Keller's
Guardian Angel, 343-347.
Macy, John, comes to Helen Keller's
rescue in connection with The Story
of My Life, 6; marries Miss Sullivan,

32- 33; described by Helen Keller,

33- 34; helps with composition of
The World I Live In and The Song
of the Stone Wall, 34-35; in woods
around Wrentham, 36; friend of,
presents Kaiser, 37; brings Nimrod,
39-44; drives whitefoot, 42; takes
great interest in Wrentham place,
45; visits Mark Twain, 52 IF.; reads
German and French books to Helen
Keller, 81; impossible to read all
needed, 84; goes to Boston every
morning, 84; at Woodrow Wilson's
inauguration, 103; receives letter
from Dr. Bell, 108; Miss Sullivan
tells Dr. Bell of her engagement to,
135; wearies of struggle, 147-148;
Wrentham without, 177; describes
Art Young's cartoons to Helen
Keller, 283; counsels Helen Keller
with regard to books, 317-319.

McGirr, Katie, 252.

Maeterlinck, Maurice, 273.

Maeterlinck, Mme. (Georgette Le
Blanc), 273.

Magazines for blind, 80, 280.

Manual, alphabet, 8, 93-94, in, 114.

Mark Twain, contacts with Helen
Keller, 47; first meeting with Helen
Keller, 47-48; denunciation of
Philippine atrocities, 48-49; cyni-
cism, 49; speaks of his wife, 50-51;
a great American in Helen Keller's
opinion, 5 1-52; invites Helen Keller,
Mr. and Mrs. Macy to Stormfield,

INDEX

359

52-69; speaks against special school
for deaf-blind, 71-72; Wilson's
attitude towards his denunciation
of American soldiers in the Philip-
pines, 103-104; represented in
Helen Keller's motion picture, 193;
opinion of fools, 198; calls on Hut-
tons with H. H. Rogers, 288;
opinion of H. H. Rogers, 289;
Connecticut Yankee quoted, 302.

Martin, Helen, 251,

Marx, Karl, 22, 319, 325.

Masefield, John, 327-328.

Mason, Ann, 190.

Massachusetts, 330.

Massachusetts School and Perkins
Institution for the Blind, 30-31,
73, 75* 77, 84, 125, 231, 245, 254,
316.

Massachusetts State Commission for

the BHnd, 76, 87, 88, 263.
Masters, Edgar Lee, 323.
Mather, Samuel, 241.
Mather, Winifred Holt, 101-IQ2, 174.
Matilda Ziegler Magazine for the Blind,

241, 252, 280,
Meckstroth, Bertha, 18.
Mell, Alexander, 81.
Mencken, Henry L., 321.
Microbe Hunters, 324.
Migel, M. C, 224, 228, 241.
Miller, Francis Trevelyan, 186.
Milton, John, 142, 226.
Montessori, Signora, 273-274.
Morley, John, 270.
Morrow, A,, 79.

Motion picture, Helen Keller's, 186-
208; Charlie Chaplin's, 194; Mary
Pickford's, 237-240. See also De-
liverance.

Muir woods, 161.

My Antonia, 323.

My Religion, 313.

Nathan Hofheimer Foundation, 241.
Nathan the Wise, 281.
Nation, 262.

National Committee for the Pre-
vention of Blindness, 79-80, 230.

National Library for the Blind, 234.

National Society for the Prevention
of Blindness, 230.

National Vaudeville Association, 213.

Nebraska School for the Blind, 251.

Neilson, William Allan, 16.

Nelson, Colonel, 80
New Jersey, 330.

New Jersey Commission for the Blind,
251.

New Jerusalem Church, 271.
New York, 164-165.
New York Point, 281.
New Worlds for Old, 3 19.
Newcomb, Professor, 112, 130-131.
Newspapers, 153, 172-173.
Nietzsche, 22.
Nimrod, 39-41.

Nordin, Elizabeth, visit to Helen

Keller, 85.
North, Dr., 79.

Odour. See Smell, Sense of.
Omar Khayyam, 194.
O'Neill, Eugene, 321.
Open Road, The, 168, 318.
Opium, 282.

Ophthalmia neonatorum, 79, 230.
Optimism, 15.
Origin of Species, The, 118.
Orpheum Circuit, 209.
Othello, 9.

Out of the Dark, 141.

Outlook for the Blind, The, 81.

Oxford Dictionary, 109.

Paget, Sir Richard, 278.
Paine, Albert Bigelow, 54.
Palgrave, 325.

Pan-American Exposition, 273.

Peace, 333-334, 337-339-

Pearce, Theodosia, 250.

Pearson, Sir Arthur, 281, 324.

Pedro, Dom, Emperor of Brazil, 116-

117.
Peggy, 188.

Penn, William, 337-339.
Pennsylvania, 330.

Perkins Institution. See Massachu-
setts School and Perkins Institution
for the Blind.

Philosophy, at RadclifFe, 11-15; by
the fireside in Cambridge, 22-23;
Helen Keller's, of life, 333-341.

Philosophy of Loyalty, The, 17.

Phiz, 18-19, 37-

Pickford, Mary, 237-239.

Pittsburgh, 126-127.

Plato, 7, 12, 316.

Piatt, George Foster, 189, 195, 201.
Plautus, 9.

36o IN

Pliny, 174.
Poetry, 9-10.
Pope, 9.

Porter, Edna, 264, 278, 309.
Powell, Major, 112.
Pratt, Mrs., 117.

Printing for blind, confusion in,

76-78, 81.
Prometheus Unbound, 326.
Psychologie des Femmes Aveugles, 83.
Punch, 262.

Quakers, 338-339-
Queensborough, 295-296.

RadclifFe College, Helen Keller a
Sophomore, i; writes The Story of
My Life at, 4-6; admission to, 7;
method of study, 8-9; literature,
9-10; history, lo-ii; philosophy,
11-15; professors, 15-18; class-
mates, 18-20; degree conferred,
24-26; plan to force Hellen Keller
to leave, 70-72; scene of Helen
Keller's first definite interest in
sightless as a group, 75; false reports
about Helen Keller at, 85-86;
method of following lectures, 87-88;
Woodrow Wilson asks Helen Keller
why she chose, 104; summer follow-
ing first year spent with Dr. Bell,
127 fF.; H. H. Rogers makes it
possible for Helen Keller to attend,
288; Miss Sullivan beside Helen
Keller at, 345.

Red Cross, braille service, 8.

Reed, 318.

Rhoades, Harsen John, 71, 281.
Rhoades, Nina, 281.
Rhode Island, 330.
Riders of the Sea, 327.
Roberts, Florence, 190.
Robins in Helen Keller's garden
304-306.

Rochester School for the Deaf, 237.
Rockefeller, John D., Jr., 241.
Roebling, Colonel, 2, 3, 295.
Rogers, H. H., 8, 47, 54, 71, 72, 74,

139, 288-289.
Rogers, Mrs. H. H., 54, 288-289.
RoUand, Romain, 319, 336.
Roosevelt, Theodore, 161, 173-174.
Royal Normal College and Academy

of Music, 75.
Royce, Josiah, 16, 17.

EX

Russell, George {IE), 327.
Russia, revolution in, 334-335.

Sacco, 336.

San Francisco, 160-164.
Sandburg, Carl, 275.
Saturday Evening Post, The, 283.
"Saul," 326.
Schall, Thomas, 235.
Schiller, 10.

School for Blind in Tokio, 278.

Schopenhauer, 22.

Schreiner, Olive, 323,

Schulz, Helen, 251.

Schurz, Carl, 102.

Scott, Sir Walter, 143.

Senses, development of, 11-15; Mark

Twain's opinion of, 66; trained, 99;

use of, 120; white darkness, 164;

tested, 257-260.
Seyburn, Mrs., 236.
Shakespeare, William, 58, 119, 143.
Shaw, George Bernard, 51, 319, 320,

324-

Shelley, Percy Bysshe, 9, 22, 325, 326.

" Shoulder Arms," 194.

Sibley, Harper, 237.

Sibley, Mrs. Harper, 237.

SiegUnde, 39, 186, 309-310.

Sign system, 11 3-1 14.

Sizeranne, Maurice de la, 83.

Skylark, To a, 326.

Sligo, 207-208.

Smell, sense of, 164-166, 291.

Smith, Lenore Kinney, 6, 20, 32, 235.

Smith, Philip Sidney, 6, 20, 235.

Smith College, 16.

Smoke, 324.

Socialism, 141.

Socrates, 7, 12.

Song of the Stone Wall, The, 35.

Sonnets from the Portuguese, 18.

Sonnets, Shakespeare's, 9,

Sous les Trembles, 81.

Spaulding, J. P., 30-31, 288.

Speech, Helen Keller's struggle for,
88-89; 90-98; first public, in Mont-
clair, 96-98; Dr. Bell introduces
Helen Keller's, 107; Dr. Bell's
interest in, 108-110, 113-115, 116,
122; at Richmond, 139.

Sperry, Paul, 271.

Spoon River Anthology, 323.

Stadelman, Father, 253.

St. Louis Exposition, 82.

/

INDEX

361

Star, Kansas City, 80.
State Commission for Blind in Massa-
chusetts, 75.
Steele, 9.
Stirner, Max, 22.

Stormfield, Helen Keller's visit to,

47, 52-69.
Story of an African Farm, The, 323.
Story of My Life, The, 4.-6, 7, 108, 188,

249-250, 270.
Strikes, 330.
Stringer, Tommy, 252.
Suffrage, woman, 103.
Sullivan, Anne. See Macy, Anne

Sullivan.
Swedenborg, 15, 313.
Swift, 9, 323-324.
Swinburne, 22.
Synge, 327.

Tacitus, 9.

Taft, William Howard, loi.
Tagore, Rabindranath, 281-282.
Teacher. See Macy, Anne Sullivan.
Tempest, The, 132.
Tennessee, 330.
Terry, Ellen, 284.
Tess of the D' Urbervilles, 323.
Thaw, Mrs. William, 72, 74, 269.
Thompson, Francis, 326-327.
Thomson, Polly, 169, 177, 181, 182,

186, 188, 189, 203, 238, 242, 262,

268, 323.
Thora, 38.

Thoreau, 36, 314, 316.

Three Diamonds, 321.

Tilney, Frederick, 257.

Tolstoi, Leo, 22, 319, 336.

Touch, sense of, 256. See also Senses,

development of.
Tours, 149, fF. See also Lecture.
Transcript, Boston, 39, 41.
Traubel, Horace, 315.
Trifles, 321.
Turgenev, 324.
Tuscumbia, 36,

Twain, Mark. See Mark Twain.
Tyson, Katherine, 309.
Tyson, Mildred, 218, 309.
Tyson, Patricia, 309.
Tyson, Warren L., 218, 3C9.

Ulysses, 198-199.

Uniform Type Committee of the

American Association of Workers
for the Blind, 227-228.
Utah, 330.

"Valkyrie, The," 287.

Value, Price, and Profit, 325.

Van Dyke, Henry, 233-234, 236.

Vanzetti, 336.

V atra Luminosa, 74.

Victoria, Queen, 143.

Victory, 323.

Villard, Oswald Garrison, 262-263.

Virginibus Puerisque, 21S.

Volta bureau, 115.

Voltaire, 51.

Von Maltzan, 235.

Wade, William, 8.
Wadsworth, Mrs., 235-236.
Warburg, Felix, 241.
Warfield, David, 285.
Warren, George, 271,
Warren, Mr., of Detroit, 236.
Watson, Thomas, no, 118-119,

122, 283-284.
Weber, Harry, 213.
Well of the Saints, The, 327.
Wells, H.G., 319.

Western Pennsylvania Institution for

the Blind, 224,
West Virginia, 330.
White, Blanco, 131.
White, Charles A., 88, 92-98, 271-272.
White, Mrs. Charles, 271-272.
"White darkness," 164.
Whitefoot, 42.

Whitman, Walt, 22, 167-168, 314-316,

326, 339-340.
Wilmer, William Holland, 231.
Wilson, Woodrow, 48, 103-107, 171,

277.

Winter's Tale, A, p.
Wollomonapoag, Lake, 26, 36.
Woman suffrage, 103.
Women's Educational and Industrial

Union, 75.
Wood, Leonard, General, 49.
Wordsworth, 9, 143.
Workers, Helen Keller becomes aware

of condition of, 156-158.
World I Live In, The, 15, 34, 52, 123,

317-

World's Work, 262.

World War, 169-170

Wrentham, 26, 29, 47, 70, 76, 83-88,

3^2 INDEX

93, 139, 148* 177, 182-183, 220, 273, Ziegler Magazine for the Blind. See
AX7 • u r^ , c , , Matilda Ziegler Magazine for the

Wnght-Humason Oral School, 92. Blind.

^ „,.„. ^ , Ziegler, Mrs. William, 80.

Yeats, William Butler, 327. Ziegler, William, 241.

Young, Art, 283. Zoo, 125.

/

i

I

HVl62i.! c» 3

Keller, Helen Adams
r-ndstream.

Date Due

/AMERICAN FOUNDATION FOR THE BLIND

15 WEST 16th STREET
NEW YORK, N.Y. IC:!!